


Un Ballet de Débuts ('A Dance of Beginnings')

by BrielleSPN, Serenhawk



Series: Cockles smuts and stuffs [9]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: A shit-ton more angst, Angst, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Break up theory, Cockles, Cockles Big Bang 2016, Comedy, Dom Misha, Dom/sub Undertones, Dom/sub imagery, Embedded playlist, First Time, Fluff, M/M, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Schmoop, Smut, Sub Jensen, Top Misha Collins, airplane toilet sex, did we mention the angst though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7152260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrielleSPN/pseuds/BrielleSPN, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of Misha and Jensen.<br/>It's told through snapshots of pivotal moments beginning that fateful day on set in 2008, and traverses milestones in their eight year dance of friendship, partnership, struggles and joys, to see how they arrived where they are today.</p>
<p>Though threaded together, each chapter could also stand alone. They are intended as emotional polaroids capturing conversations and experiences, explored via alternating POV's depending on whom we felt would be best to tell each occasion through. Beginning with first meeting, the story moves through crushes, declarations, fights and reconciliations, all within a polyamorous framework. There isn't a large cast of characters because this is all about Jensen and Misha, and their entirely unique choreography. Vicki and Danneel feature only in the background.<br/>One author writes Jensen, the other Misha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. En Face

**Author's Note:**

> So we decided to do a thing, which turned into a bigger thing than we ever anticipated, despite leaving so much out. We assembled meta, laboured over con vids, triple cross-referenced timelines, firmly affixed our tin hats, and set forth into feels hell. Sure we made ourselves laugh, but also cry. Like a LOT. Because these two have that effect on us.
> 
> Thanks to @pietoperdition, @emmyloo03 and @hallemcready for their feedback/beta. Hugs to our artist Cindy who had to pull out due to poor health.
> 
> A playlist for the fic can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbQvLgYOORurGGhHyWzYhttyFP-LwEkFy). Each chapter also has the accompanying song/s embedded at the end.  
> Enjoy! <333
> 
>  
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect is intended to those whose names are used.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Face, en (ɑ̃ fas)  
> Means: 'Facing, in front of.' En face indicates facing something directly, generally the audience.

**  
**

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

If he hadn’t been so nervous he probably would have taken more notice of the stillness, the hush of a universally held breath as an invisible curtain rose.

Not that he could have known this trip to Vancouver would be epochal. It was just another gig, another line on his resume, a few months of a buffer in the bank account. He couldn’t have known when he shrugged on the beige coat and let himself be led into the cavernous set, his lines set to shuffle inside his head, that the stage he was ushered to was metaphorically immense compared to the physical one onto which he stepped. He could never have predicted being unmade under the blaze of lights and a bisected smile while around him the crew hustled, disguised like the chaos of an orchestra tuning itself.

There was no punch in the gut, no finger-tap of fate on his back, or instant recognition burning like a cigarette into the fabric of his core. He could never have known it was an end, and a beginning; a role, wrapped in a persona, inside a performance.

How was he to know? There would be _him._

 


	2. Premieré (First Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Premier, première [pruh-MYAY, pruh-MYEHR]  
> Means: “First”.

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

**_Vancouver, Canada. July, 2008_ **

“Jackles!”

The man yelling to the right of the sound stage as Misha approaches is one of the few he recognizes. His escort from the guest trailer claps him on the shoulder. “Good luck,” the PA murmurs near Misha's ear before turning tail, leaving him to the mercy of another day one of a new job.

He takes the hand offered to him by the director—Kim—and accepts the genial welcome just as they are joined by the subject of the brusque summons. There’s a record-scratch across Misha's brain so light and reflexive it’s almost lost in the skittering responses as he’s introduced to his opposite in the scene, the number one on today’s call sheet.

Misha wasn’t sure what he was expecting—he’s barely made it through watching an episode of this show—but the man facing him, with the peculiarly pleasing name and features dusted in gold, wasn’t it.

The handshake Kim facilitates leaves a cool dry imprint on his palm, and he stores it away in the coat’s voluminous pocket. He tries to engross himself in the conversation regarding Kim’s vision, but the obvious rapport between the veteran and Jensen Ackles leaves Misha feeling more like an outsider than he already did. Which as it happens, is exactly how he likes it, at least on the job. He'd worked out long ago being off balance negated his tendency to overthink if he’s left to his own devices, and keeps his instincts primed.

Their exchange lengthens, and then suddenly he and Jensen are left to run through together, Misha feeling the absence of a safety net he didn't know he needed. Overall he thinks he succeeds in maintaining his professional face, or the character he daren’t move too far from; he’s not the kind of actor who could just flip a switch at will. But Misha does make an effort to return the smiles aimed at him, narrow but warm. Increasingly, his skin prickles as he’s skimmed by roving leafen eyes, examining but aloof much like the guy’s posture; folded arms and an oblique stance that’s curiously right on the line of being ‘too’ close in a way that Misha's hyper aware of but inescapably tuned to. The whole effect drags on his concentration like two fingers of recently consumed bourbon.

He doesn’t get to analyze it until the third in the scene joins them. Misha is introduced to Jim then finds himself an accessory again, and allows the moment some thought as he watches the other two men joke familiarly. _This must be what being starstruck feels like_ he ponders, failing to ascribe a better description to being unable to take his eyes from his scene partner. It wasn’t beauty - beautiful people were a dime a dozen in L.A. and he’d ceased to be intimidated by them. Nor was it elemental attraction. But there is something earnest, something that makes him feel at once infinitely inferior and favored in the same glinting gaze when it settles on him. Something that cements Misha's feet where he stands.

And he doesn’t like it.

“Mee-sha?” His name is drawn into two tentative long syllables. Divide and conquer.

“Umm, yeah,” he responds, awkward and embarrassed at zoning out and likely staring. He refocuses, his eyes darting between each actor before returning to Ackles, who sneers back at him - not contemptuously, but in such a way Misha feels both revealed and misjudged.

He lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that annoys him, but he’s unable to abort it. “Sorry?” he says, to his further irritation. He’s being looked at like an experiment and he resents it, mostly because it’s what he’s often accused of doing himself. Suddenly everything changes, his emotions turning on a dime to land on dislike. It is totally irrational, but it helps. _Yes, I can work with this_ he thinks. “What?” he asks bluntly, steeling his expression. The other man’s eye’s tighten, then he haughtily raises one brow making Misha vacillate between self-castigation and writing this job off already. _Never mind_ he thinks, _you’re not here to make friends._

“I was just askin’, how about—” the actor starts, sounding bored before they’re interrupted by a burly man striding up to their trio, arm outstretched for Misha’s.

“Castiel!” he says heartily.

“Misha—” Misha corrects him.

“Awesome. Now, Castiel...” Misha lets himself be led away to be showered in detail after detail. He nods and pretends it’s not going in one ear and out the other. His hijacker, it turns out, is someone to do with ‘effects’, who once done with him hands him over to briefly partner with Jim and a choreographer.  Then he’s passed to someone in wardrobe, then more makeup and fingers in his hair from another, until he’s finally maneuvered around by a variety of people leading him between marks, peering at him, waving light meters or various gadgets nearby. It’s a dance he knows the steps to but the arrangement is unfamiliar and he’s...well he’s just _off_. He knows he is because he keeps nodding absently at his attendants and glancing over to where Ackles is seated back in his chair with one ankle slung over the other knee. Tanned, ropey arms descend from the khaki tee to refined fingers writing notes in his pages, while a wedge of tongue between prim teeth signaled concentration.

Misha’s preoccupation alone irritates him—he’s not in control at all—but not _once_ does Misha catch Ackles looking back and it leaves him feeling inexplicably jilted.

Then the man is abruptly up and joining the melee: having layers of clothing added, brushes dusting over his cheekbones, holding gesticulating conversations with the director and several others. At one point they pass right by and everything slows as they eye each other like alpha cats, wary and poised. Misha doesn’t know what to make of _any_ of it. His usually honed body language sensors are being thrown for a loop and he doesn’t know why he cares.

And then, finally, it’s roll time, and he has to— _has to—_ throw it all off and do his fucking job. Which he does, drawing in all his turbulence and molding it to use as weight to hold him in the scene where he’s assuming a being whom he has no idea is good or evil. Hell, his character might not be destined to even last out this episode if he does a shit job, or pisses off the lead even more.

They get the first shots—the entrance—off the sheet with most effects going off without a hitch, and Misha feels his equilibrium return by the time he has to stand in front of the other actor, his dialogue lined up like shells sitting in a magazine waiting to be fired.

He surreptitiously eyes Jensen as someone technical explains the best choreography with the prop before moving on to Jim, leaving them to keep their marks while the crew shuffle into position.

“So, Angel...where would I find your heart, exactly?” 

Misha looks up from his shoes with a start, expecting to be faced with an impudent smirk but finding Jensen looking at him with a gravitas that has him on the verge of an unbidden laugh.

He clears his throat to cover it, then emboldened with fuck knows what, reaches for the actor’s right wrist. “Ostensibly, it should be about _here,_ ” he says, guiding Jensen’s fingertips to the left of his breastbone over his lapel. “But mine tends to get me in trouble so I confine it where it can do no harm,” he deadpans, and _why the fuck did he say something like that? Why did he not make it a joke? It wasn’t even true...well, okay, it was a little true, but why did he blurt that to a stranger? An alluring, impenetrable stranger he did. not. like. who was simply asking where to stab a fake knife into him for dramatic purposes._

He blinks and tries to look away, but Jensen holds his stare with a scarce tilt to his head. “That doesn’t sound like any way to live,” he replies, slowly letting his hand fall from Misha’s chest. It’s clear he didn’t take it as a joke and now suddenly Misha feels naked and achingly sad like he’s already been stabbed with a knife and _he doesn’t understand any of this._

But then it’s time, and the next ninety minutes fly by as they knock out the rest of the scene. To his complete surprise, Misha has fun. Somehow, they hit the sweet spot, and Misha feels like he has his shit together, like he’s _meant_ to be here, and meant to be Castiel.

The clincher, is that Ackles is good. Really good. They meet each other at all the right beats, just like they’d done this before, and Misha allows himself to be carried by the allure and verisimilitude of the moment, and the tinder gathering at their feet.

When they’re finished Misha is riding a modest high as a wrap on the day is called. “Hey, uh...thanks. Nice work,” Ackles says charitably. “You threw me with the voice for a minute there,” he adds with a wry grin, “but it worked.”

Misha broadly returns the smile. “Likewise,” he says, “I mean the thanks,” he amends realizing he’s making no sense, the adds precariously “and I’m relieved not to be the only one thrown.”

“What?” Jensen’s expression hovers, a smile dancing over his lips in tandem with a fleeting frown.

“Never mind,” Misha quickly dismisses, shaking his head. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’ll have me back,” he says brightly.

The other man ducks his lips and shrugs in a ‘maybe, maybe not’ gesture, before winking and turning away. _Asshole._

 _“_ Hey, ahh, you wanna come out for a drink?” Jensen says, halting mid pirouette. _Withdrawn_ Misha revises, seeing the hesitancy in his eyes. Although he's still dubious, and suddenly shitting himself.

He wavers on an answer. _This could go very badly,_ he thinks, unable to decipher if he was being subtly propositioned or not, and wishing Vicki was here to help tell him; his skillset, contrary to the current display, was more evolved as flirter than flirtee.

“Uh, thanks, but I'm jetlagged,” _because that's absolutely a thing that can happen traveling between LA and Vancouver_ Misha asserts internally, following his instinct to play this safe, “so I was just going to head to my hotel, hit on - uh - up the mini bar and pass out.” _Shit._

Ackles scrolls down his torso, then gives him a short nod. It's an entirely different and more generous assessment to what he underwent earlier in the afternoon. “Fair enough. Jared would probably just take the chance to locate all your weak spots anyway,” he admits.

“Jared? Oh! The uh, other one...” Misha trails off. _Well, that settles it, he's just being hospitable_ he thinks, ominously crestfallen while a little relieved.

“Yeah. Okay well, get some sleep.” The goodbye is punctuated by a pat on his upper arm, both unduly familiar and dismissive. Then he's gone, loping off like he had somewhere else he had to be, leaving Misha back to square one on the scale of confusion with a shot of impending regret to boot.

He turns and is saved from a sheepish retreat by Kim gently shaking his hand once more and issuing encouragement and praise. It was a double-edged sword, the ego stroking in this profession. He'd chosen it for a plethora of reasons, from the pragmatic to highly indulgent, but it still chafed between varying aspects of his personality. Luckily, he was a fan of self-involved friction.

Finally he finds his way back to the trailer and a respite from the oppressive clothing, joyfully shrugging on a dark tee and jeans. He's absolutely famished, blaming the nerves for the scant lunch he'd had before his call.  A knock on his door informs him a car would pick him up shortly, so he goes out to the car park to wait in the late afternoon sun, impulsively hopping up onto the back of a pick-up so he can sit on the tray and take a load off the feet he’s been standing on for most of the last five hours.

Misha pulls out his phone, intending to send a convoluted text to his wife to tell her how the day went without incurring hideous roaming charges, but he has difficulty distilling his thoughts to write even a simple summary. He’s fidgeting in annoyance when he notices two lanky figures out of the corner of his eye. He looks up as they cross the lot deep in conversation, out of earshot but close enough he can feel his scene partner's gaze sweeping over him more than once. The other, taller guy nods towards him and Misha just _knows_ they're talking about him, but he thinks he can detect shade of chagrin in Jensen's lopsided smile. Then he almost pauses mid-step to give Misha a shaky wave, before hurrying to keep stride with his companion, whose hearty answering laugh causes Misha's nose to scrunch in annoyance.

He sighs, resolutely ignoring them in favor of his phone screen and decides he deserves to take full advantage of room tab. It had been a very confusing day on a fun park ride he still didn't know how he'd boarded, and he was ready to get the fuck off and return to normal. One more day, one scene and then he can go home again and wait to see if they still want him back in a few weeks time, though he kind of hopes they'll write him out and he won't have to even as he tries to shake off the feeling of something waiting. Something that itches at the back of his neck, weighing on him like he'd never taken off that trenchcoat.

When that night he has a strange dreams of a large prowling cat seated outside his window, flashing green eyes backlight by the sun despite the inky night, he blames the wine he had with his room service dinner chased by the small bottle of bourbon. And then the gin. Not the prospect of waking up to spend another day face to face with Jensen Ackles.


	3. Chassé (Crush)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chassé [sha-SAY]  
> Means: “To chase”. It is where one foot extends out in front and then the back foot chases the front foot and very quickly the front foot shoots out again forward. They are usually done in series.

** **

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

**_Vancouver, Canada. August, 2008_ **

Misha Fucking Collins.

The man was infuriating. A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma - and Jensen couldn’t find the key. Worse, there didn’t even seem to _be_ a key. Just more riddles. More conundrums. More _questions_. A frustrating labyrinth of twist and turns that only ever opened up onto another path. Every time he thought he was getting to the end, close to cracking the code, finding the exit; he turned a corner only to find the paths had multiplied, or he was back at the start, even more disoriented and befuddled than he was to begin with.

Didn’t seem to stop him though. Jensen kept getting drawn back. Kept worrying at the lock. Picking and prodding until he was at his wits end. Frustrated and confused. But no less intrigued by the puzzle. Each new barrier just served to make him more fascinated, more inclined to search for answers. More desperate to unlock this captivating conundrum all wrapped up in smooth, lightly tanned skin, hair that never seemed to stay tamed - no matter how many times it’s owner attempted to wrangle it into place - and a blinding smile that was lightning quick, sliding on and off the stubbled jaw like a supernova. The sun lived in that smile, and it lit up the world; cradling and nourishing everything it fell on.

And blue, blue eyes. Sparkling eyes. Eyes that never seemed to dull, always seemed to glitter and shine no matter what they were faced with. Eyes you could fall into and drown in, never even realizing you were in trouble until you were left breathless and gasping. They glowed. Galaxies existed in those eyes. They twinkled when he was amused, flashed when he was annoyed, glistened when he was concerned, and shone when he was happy.

Never more so than when they looked at Jensen. When they looked at Jensen, those eyes _blazed_.

**~*~**

**_August 2008_ **

Shit.

Jensen had been having a pretty involved conversation with Misha for the past hour - and he couldn’t tell you one single fucking thing about what they’d been talking about if you’d tortured it out of him. Slowly.

He could, however, tell you that: 1. The deep laugh lines around Misha’s eyes crinkled whenever he smiled. Which he did. Often. 2. He did this adorable little face scrunch when he was trying not to laugh. Every time he did it, Jensen was hard pressed not to laugh himself. It was utterly addictive. 3. The tiny little frown lines between his eyebrows were _absolutely_ captivating. They popped in and out of existence depending on what Misha was saying, the depth and breadth fluctuating in direct correlation with how passionate he was about his subject. 4. He had a small nick in his lower lip that Jensen was just _dying_ to know how it happened. And 5. He kept worrying said nick with the pinkest and pointiest tongue Jensen had ever laid eyes on. It would slide out of the cavern of his mouth, snake through his teeth, and flick, flick, flick at the miniscule abrasion. Then disappear to lie in wait until the next time.

Jensen felt every. single. one. of those little flicks like a physical fucking assault. It was offensive. A affront to his very person. _And he wasn’t going to stand for it any longer_ . The next time it appeared - doubtless intent on ruining Jensen’s life - he was going to show that tongue who was boss. Tame it. Wrestle it into submission with his fingers. Or his _own_ tongue. Oh, yeah. That was _much_ better. Inspired even. The next time that tongue escaped to attack him again, he would lean forward, capture it between his lips, subdue it with his teeth, pin it down with _his_ tongue, then shove the damn thing right back where it belonged. The fight would be quick and dirty, but he had no doubt he would emerge the victor. He _had_ to. It was a matter of life or death at this point.

Hmmm…actually, on second thought, maybe he should try a different tactic. Go at it Trojan horse style. Use his own tongue as the bait. Offer it up as tribute. Tease it. Tantalise it. Give it a false sense of security by coaxing it gently back into the safe, slick heat of Misha’s mouth. _Then_ attack. I mean, history _had_ proven the tactic successful. And you caught more flies with honey right? Right?

Jesus Christ. He was a fucking mess.

**~*~**

**_September 2008_ **

“Misha!”

Jensen’s head snapped up from where he was bent over his script at the PA’s shout, eyes scanning the set automatically. It was pavlovian at this point, someone even _mentioned_ Misha’s name and Jensen was all. over. it. Traitorous body responding in new and frustrating ways at the mere whisper of him. Like an earworm constantly resonating in his head he couldn’t get rid of no matter what he tried. Work, booze, sex. Nothing seemed to shake it. He knew, he’d tried them all. _Repeatedly_.

Eyes narrowing in thought as they tracked the PA across the room, they eventually fell upon the man in question, widening almost comically at the sight of him. Misha was half undressed, chest bared to the room without any apparent regard for who he might be devastating with his soul-crushing partial nakedness.

The scene they’d just shot called for an Angels versus Demons showdown, and Misha’s shirt had gotten ruined in the fray. The front was torn open, all the buttons ripped off and scattered haphazardly across the room. The PA was apparently bringing him a new one to change into.

Utterly transfixed, Jensen watched helplessly as he undressed, and suddenly everything seemed to be in slow motion. Time screeched to a mere whisper of itself as he removed first the ridiculous trenchcoat, then the tie (the very tie that Jensen had _not once_ noted was the exact same cerulean as his goddamn eyes), then the shirt itself. The flesh on his pectorals and biceps rippling like water over stone as he shrugged the oversized ivory fabric off his shoulders and slid it down his arms with an excruciating slowness that Jensen was convinced was occurring to torture him specifically.

Misha had somehow forgotten to undo the buttons at the cuffs, and he halted his actions to fumble at them, the shirt bunching at his wrists, stretching tight across his upper thighs and cradling his ass; and Jensen couldn’t help staring, his imagination going wild, wondering if this was what Misha looked like in the midst of frenzied, mindless sex. The kind of sex where you forgot tiny, unimportant things like undoing buttons and clasps, and ended up all tangled up in your clothes before saying fuck it and just ripping them off in a feverish bid to get at the skin underneath. Hands and mouths everywhere in pure, animalistic lust. Grasping, biting, moaning...

Suddenly realizing his mouth had dropped open in awe, Jensen clapped it shut, teeth snapping, and swallowed convulsively. Jesus Christ, he’d practically been drooling. Tearing his eyes away from the positively pornographic sight in front of him, he glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, then - satisfied he hadn’t been caught - stared blindly down at his script as the image of Misha, head thrown back in hedonistic pleasure as his nipples were teased with teeth and tongue played out in his imagination. Breath hitching, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs uncomfortably, desperate to hide the... _situation_...occurring in his pants from any random prying eyes.

Shit.

Determined to redirect his thoughts back to the task at hand, he took a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to settle his marauding imagination, then exhaled slowly to a count of ten. He could do this. He was a _professional_ for fucks sake.

This entire episode was challenging, emotionally _and_ physically, and his current scene was gnawing at him. It had always promised to be awkward - sex scenes generally were - and it didn’t help that he was never quite comfortable getting his kit off on screen. Nor did it help that he kept picturing a _different_ Angel writhing on top of him in the Impala in the place of the one the scene was _actually_ with.

Annnndddd there goes his imagination again, shooting off on another rampage without his permission.

Fuck. The man was a goddamned menace.

**~*~**

**_January 2009_ **

Misha had stupid hair.

Trust him, he’d done the research. Extensive research. Different times of the day, different situations and settings. No matter what was happening, Misha’s hair always managed to look like the man had just fallen out of bed - or worse - just had _sex_. (Not that Misha post-coitus, pre-coitus, or smack-in-the-middle-coitus was something that Jensen was thinking about at random moments during the day, ever.)

It was wild and dark and there was this lock just over his left ear that kept curling into the hollow that must tickle like hell because Misha kept fussing at it. Grabbing at it with those insane fingers of his (and those goddamn fingers were a WHOLE other issue that Jensen never thought about) and tucking it behind his ear, only to have it escape almost immediately and snake its way back into the same spot.

Jensen desperately wanted to tell him to cut it or brush it or use some damn product on it. Fucking shave it all off or something. It was annoying as fuck. He absolutely _did not_ want to brush it gently back off his forehead, card his fingers into it to see if it was a soft as it looked, or tug sharply on it as he pulled him in for… Nope. He certainly _did not_ want that. That was another thing he never thought about a million times a day.

Nor did he think about what it would _really_ look like first thing in the morning. When it was spread out over the pillow. When it was all wet from the shower.

When it was tickling Jensen’s thighs…

Jesus. He really needed to get laid. Pronto.

**~*~**

**_March 2009_ **

This was getting serious.

Jensen was having issues. Serious issues of the ‘accidental hard-on’ kind.

They had just finished filming a scene in the season finale where Castiel shoves Dean against a wall, moulds his body against his and claps a hand over his mouth, effectively gagging him; and Jensen - despite every goddamned mental defense he’d put in place in preparation for the scene - had popped a fucking boner. Not a semi either. Not a proximity ‘ok that feels kinda nice opps, sorry man’ friction stiffy.  An actual, full on, ‘seriously gonna pass-out now because all the blood suddenly defected from his brain to his dick’, raging. fucking. hard-on.

He was _mortified_.

Worse, if the glimmer of curiosity(?), interest(?!), in Misha’s eyes was any indication, the other man had fucking _noticed_. Not only had he noticed, he’d used the cover of that damn trenchcoat to surreptitiously nudge Jensen’s thighs apart with his knee, slipping his leg in between Jensen’s and shoving a rock-hard thigh against Jensen’s rock-hard cock.

Catching Jensen’s eye and noting the quick intake of breath he couldn’t have halted if he’d tried, Misha had held his gaze and rocked forward. Pressing into him, his eyes intense, pupils blown huge, incongruent with the abundant illumination from the overhead stage lights. And all Jensen could do was clutch at Misha’s arms and hold on for the ride and hope to god he didn’t come in his pants right then and there in front of the entire fucking crew.

His only saving grace was that due to clever camera positioning, they’d managed to capture the entire shot in one take. Thank fuck for small mercies. He’d never have survived another.

Jensen was embarrassed. Jensen was insulted. Jensen was insanely fucking turned on. Matter of fact, he was pretty damn certain he’d never been this aroused in his goddamned life. (And didn’t _that_ just raise a _whole host_ of new questions Jensen didn’t want to think about.)

True, they played these little games. Jokey flirting. Teasing each other. They threw sexual innuendo around on set like it was commonplace. Fuck, it _was_ commonplace. They all did it. Jared being the worst offender. Sexually harassing anyone and everyone that came within a hand's breadth of his abnormally long reach. All jokes, of course. It didn’t actually _mean_ anything. _Especially_ with Jared. That’d be like being attracted to his brother. Or worse - considering the fact that Jared generally acted like a giant five-year-old - his _son_. _Fuck no_. That was wrong on so many levels it wasn’t even in the realm of comprehensibility. Jensen shuddered at the mere thought, his stomach turning momentarily nauseous and simultaneously having the happy side effect of instantly killing any lingering arousal he was feeling. Bonus.

But Misha? That was different. _This_ was different. All the fucking around. All the blow-job jokes and the come-fuck-me faces.They were _nothing_ in the face of what had just happened. This was...something. He didn’t exactly know _what_ , but it was something.

Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

It was all well and good to think about Misha while he was jerking off (and oh, he had. _Many_ times), that was all fantasy. It wasn’t real life. Again, it didn’t _mean_ anything. Not really. But for his fucked-up fantasies to manifest like this in the _real world_ , while he was _at work_ no less, that was serious. And he needed to do something about it (immediately if not sooner) before he made an even bigger fucking fool of himself.

No matter how many times as he’d imagined it in the deep, dark recesses of his mind (and he’d lost count of how many), the reality still managed to scare the fuck out of him. Innocent imaginings were one thing. They were safe. Harmless even. What man hadn’t accidentally (or purposely, whatever) fantasized about a good friend while they were getting off? Right? Plausible deniability and all that. But the reality? The reality was something _totally_ different.

Did he actually want something to happen with Misha? Conversely, did _Misha_ want something with him? And if so, what?

Maybe he’d ask him to run lines later. That would hopefully help him work through what had just happened, get over the awkwardness and whatnot and get back to whatever passed for normalcy these days.

Riiiiight.

**~*~**

**_March 2009 (cont…)_ **

It was raining. Pouring, actually.

Jensen usually enjoyed the rain, the sound of the drops hitting the roof and sides of his trailer was calming. Cathartic. He would frequently zone out whilst listening to it, sprawled on what passed for a bed in the marginally well-equipped yet still undeniably cramped tin box that was his home-away-from-home.

To Jensen’s mind the rain was kinda like music, in a way; the pitter-patter of raindrops aided in soothing away the stress of the day's shooting. Helped him detangle the knots in his mind and ease the tension in his abused body. Each gust of wind manipulating the drops into tapping out new and interesting melodies across the metal.

Not tonight though. Tonight the rain was irritating. Instead of music, he heard nothing but a jarring metallic pinging that was horribly abusive to his finely tuned musicians ear. Clanging away at his nerves until he thought he was going to scream or throw something.

He’d just popped a CD in the stereo to drown out the sound when there was a knock at his trailer. He grabbed the remote on his way to get the door, jabbing at the volume button to turn it down, then tossing it haphazardly at the couch as he passed by. It bounced and fell off the side, landing on the floor and sliding toward the coffee table, coming to a stop balanced precariously on it side against the table leg.

Hesitating briefly, he elected to ignore it for the moment, opting instead to open the door to the apparently increasingly impatient man banging enthusiastically on the small window.

Misha’s face was flushed from the cold, hair wet and plastered against his scalp and face, and Jensen found himself utterly transfixed, eyes helplessly tracing the smattering of water across his cheekbones and trailing down his neck. Tiny prisms of brilliance that caught in his eyelashes and glistened in the dim light from the doorway.

Misha frowned at him, blinking rapidly under the onslaught and breaking the spell, then gestured at himself and snapped “As requested. You gonna let me in or am I to stand out here and drown while you stare at me?”

Oops, caught.

Jensen blushed, covered his momentary distraction with a chuckle, and quickly motioned the sodden man inside. He posed a pretty pathetic sight really, drenched and miserable, and Jensen didn’t blame him one bit for being a tad on the ornery side. Had their roles been reversed, he’d be _pissed_.

Closing the door as the other man came through, he headed into the ensuite, throwing a “Towel?” over his shoulder as he went.

“Mmmph.”

Choosing to take the answering grunt in the affirmative, he snagged one off the rail and moved back into the living area, only to find Misha struggling with his sweater, unsuccessfully trying to divest himself of the water-logged garment. The fabric was half-way over his head, apparently stuck to his skin, and his undershirt had ridden up his stomach revealing a flat expanse of damp, bronzed flesh to Jensen’s hungry eyes. Dammit. This was _not_ a good start. So much for keeping his libido on the down-low.

Jensen swallowed past the lump in his throat and forced a laugh, “You want some help there man? Or is this spontaneous Chippendales show a one man operation?”

Misha grunted again - in disgust? in silent appeal? Whatever it was Jensen suddenly found he couldn’t _not_ help and he reached out reflexively, hands shaking only a little (not that you could notice), and snagged the hem of Misha’s t-shirt, his fingers grazing the bare flesh of Misha’s side and raising goosebumps on _both of them_ for very different reasons (he assumed, who fucking knew at this point) as he tugged the fabric back down and smoothed it over his co-star’s hips.

Misha’s breath hitched and he stilled for a heartbeat (a small part of Jensen’s brain filed _that_ little tidbit away to chew on later), then he huffed and mumbled, “Ifyergonahelpgetthisfuggenthinofmyhed.”

Jensen snatched his hands back like he’d been burned. “What?”

“If. you’re. going. to. help., get. this. fucking. thing. off. my. head.” Misha repeated, enunciating each word slowly and clearly.

“Oh! Um, ok then. Hold on.” Jensen reached up and grabbed the wet sweater, tugging it up and off Misha’s head with a jerk. Misha swayed with the force, and Jensen immediately dropped the garment on the floor with a squelch, reaching out to steady the careening man with a firm grasp on his hips.

His _hips_. Why the fuck did he grab his damn hips? The normal thing manly thing would have been to grab his shoulder, quickly steady him, then retreat back into the safely of his own personal space. No harm, no foul.

But nooooo. Jensen had to go and paw at the man’s stupid hips like a fucking degenerate.

And he was still doing it! Jesus Christ. Snatching his hands back, _yet again_ , he looked up to see Misha biting his lip and studying him curiously. His ridiculous lips were all slick and shiny from the rain, stupid hair all wet and messy and sticking up all over the place, and Jensen’s fingers itched to run through it. To shape it and pat it down. To tug on it and pull him in. Feel the slickness of his skin and taste the rain on his lips...aannd now he was going to have to go and shoot himself. Pity. His life had been going _so well_ up until this point.

He spun away, heart pounding erratically, breath coming hard, cursing his marauding thoughts and stalked over to the bar fridge, muttering “You wanna beer?”

This was rapidly turning out to be a _very_ bad idea. Evidently he couldn’t control himself around the man, wet _or_ dry. Couldn’t even be trusted to be in the _same room_ as him without attempting to molest him. Dammit. He needed to get his shit under control fast before he did something he’d _really_ regret. Like ripping the rest of his clothes off and warming every inch of the damp-chilled skin with his tongue, for example.

Shit.

“Ah, yeah. Thanks.”

Snagging two beers from the bar-fridge, he passed one to Misha who was currently eyeing the stereo curiously.

“What’s this?”

“Elliott Smith. Song’s called ‘Angeles’”

“It’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Misha twisted the lid off the bottle and took a slug of his beer, tilting his head as he listened and sliding the cap between nimble fingers, walking it over his knuckles and back again. Jensen absolutely refused to watch the hypnotic action, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the top of Misha’s damp, tousled head.

Like _that_ helped.

“Can we turn it up?” The smile Misha threw in his direction nearly blinded him.

“Uhh, sure.”

Jensen reached for the remote at the exact same moment Misha did.

Their hands clashed halfway to the floor, fingers somehow ending up entwined, and Jensen recoiled so fast the back of his legs hit the coffee table, causing him to lose his balance and nearly fall ass over teakettle. This time it was _Misha_ reaching to steady Jensen, his hands grabbing at _Jensen’s_ hips, beer bottle smacking painfully against his hip. Jensen’s hands flew up to scrabble at Misha’s shoulders in a desperate bid to halt his fall, and Misha jerked him up and away from the table...and flush up against his body.

All of a sudden they were clasped in some bizarre parody of an embrace. The beer dangled precariously between Misha’s thumb and forefinger, the other three digits firmly parked on Jensen’s hip. As was his other hand. Jensen stared at Misha breathlessly, waiting for him to let go and move back to Safe Distance, instead, Misha threw him for a loop. Again. He grinned cheekily and winked at Jensen, then started gently swaying and…

...suddenly they were dancing. _Dancing_. Misha fingers were on Jensen’s hips and Jensen’s hands were around Misha’s neck and holy shit, this was...this was actually kinda nice.

Wait, what?

_What the fuck was happening_?!

Accidentally fantasizing about your Angel-playing friend while you were jerking off was one thing, accidentally dancing with said friend to a song about wanting to _satisfy_ an Angel was some deeply fucked up level shit.

Okay. Jokes over. Haha, very funny. Time to end this.

But Misha wasn’t pulling away, and Jensen wasn’t going to be the one who broke first.

Fuck that.

If this was some kinda macho challenge - and by the twinkle in Misha’s eye, that’s _totally_ what this was - Jensen wasn’t budging. He _refused_ to let Misha win. He’d never backed down from a dare in his life and there was _no way in hell_ he was starting now. He’d stand here and dance with the man all goddamn night if that’s what it took. That’ll teach him to fuck with Jensen Ackles.

Jesus Christ. Even _he_ knew that was some seriously fucked up logic.

_Shit_.


	4. Plié (Kiss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plié [plee-AY]  
> Means: “Bent, bending”.

** **

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

**_Sydney, Australia. April 19th, 2009_ **

“Misha sign it.”

It was his suggestion. Have Misha sign the shirt Jared was wearing, the one they were auctioning off for charity. It would bring a higher bid. More money to be donated to the children’s charity ‘The Starlight Foundation’. His suggestion, yes. But he never in his wildest dreams could have foreseen what happened next. Nor could he have anticipated his reaction to it.

**~*~**

He should have known better. Misha was unpredictable at the best of times. A loose cannon that frequently left him feeling confused and bewildered. Wanting. Never quite sure what it was he wanted, or why he wanted it. Or even if he was _allowed_ to want it.

Jared flopped forward at the waist, spreading his long legs and placing one hand on the floor to steady himself, and Misha crowded up behind him. Planted his feet and grabbed the bigger man’s waist with one hand to hold him still, the other boldly tracing his signature across the white t-shirt stretched across the broad expanse of Jared’s back. He finished with a flourish, capping the felt-tip pen and grinning cheekily at his own antics.

**~*~**

As Jensen watched Misha bend the big guy over, he was hit by a red-hot flash of jealousy. Everything exploded into a cacophony of sound, time slowed down to a mere shadow of itself, the air around him becoming viscous and syrupy. Crushing. Suffocating. He couldn’t breathe past the lump in his throat, his chest ached and his hands started to shake as he gasped for air. The tremor in his oxygen starved muscles jarring enough to feel as though he was about to vibrate right off the damn stage. Shit. He was well and truly fucked.

He rested his elbows heavily on his knees and ducked his head, looking back at his two best friends through the circle of his arms and watched as they laughed comfortably at each other’s hijinks. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? They were just stuffing around. Playing to the crowd. It wasn’t like Jared _wanted_ Misha to fuck him. He sure bent over willingly enough though, and he looked almost like he was _enjoying_ it. And Misha was so… _forceful_ . He didn’t ask, he just took control. Cupped Jared’s hips with those ridiculous fingers, slid his hand up his back and just _bent him over_ . Naturally. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d done it before. _And he liked it_.

Jensen could imagine those fingers on _his_ hips. Sliding up _his_ spine and _what the fuck Jackles_? Did he want that? Is that what this feeling was about? He wanted Misha to bend him over and…

Jensen’s thoughts screamed to a halt, he stared blindly at his hands, heart thumping, breath impossibly loud to his own ears. He felt like everyone was looking at him, fuck, they _were_ looking at him. He was on stage for Christ’s sake. He needed to get his shit together before someone noticed and called him on it. It’s just jetlag, he reasoned desperately. Yeah, jetlag. That was the reason his heart was racing, the reason his throat felt dry. Why he’d broken out in a cold sweat. Why his palms were clammy.

The reason his eyes burned.

Jared coming over to include him in the shenanigans did _not_ help, and he leapt to his feet and briefly stepped off to the side of the stage, taking a moment to compose himself before turning back toward his friends, a glib joke on his lips in an attempt to cover his inner turmoil.

He was just tired. Bone weary from travel. That had to be why he suddenly felt like he was going to lose his shit and throw up or cry or scream right there on stage in front of everyone.

Yeah, right.

He coasted through the rest of the panel in a daze, not quite disengaging, but not exactly engaging either, the banter from the previous day during autographs running in an endless loop inside his head…

> _“I couldn’t see you for a while. I got a little nervous.”_
> 
> _“That was hard.”_
> 
> _“It was.”_
> 
> _“It was like being in the water without a life jacket. Scary.”_
> 
> _“What is?”_
> 
> _“Just not being able to see him.”_
> 
> _“I’ll let you know he’s there. He’s still there, he’s still there.”_
> 
> _“Is he there?”_
> 
> _“He’s there.”_
> 
> _“Can you see him?”_

At the time it seemed like no more than silly persiflage, part of the teasing, flirty game they played with each other. It didn’t _mean_ anything. Not really. Only…

Maybe it did. Maybe this was more than just a silly infatuation. Maybe Jensen wanted... _more_.

> _“Can you see him?”_

The question was directed at Jared, but Jensen felt it like a punch to his gut. An endlessly echoing diatribe that he’d asked himself countless times over the years since they met. It bounced off the walls of his consciousness, an unsheathed but yet unexploded bullet shrieking uselessly in a soundproof chamber. Berating him. Deafening him. Could he be seen? Were his carefully crafted masks and walls not as sound as he first thought they were? Were they crumbling around him? Leaving him exposed for all the world to point and stare?

He could see _Misha_. Could see him from the moment he stepped onto the cavernous soundstage in a unseasonably warm July in Vancouver. He barrelled his way into Jensen’s life, slipping effortlessly through the cracks in his armour and set up shop before Jensen even realised what was happening. Before he could shove him away and gather his defenses back around him. Like he’d always been there. Like he belonged.

The question, the one Jensen found himself suddenly and desperately needing an immediate answer to, was;

Could _Misha_ see _him_?

**~*~**

“Stupid.”

Jensen mumbled to himself as he navigated the convoluted hallways to Misha’s hotel room. He almost chickened out, had actually gotten all the way back to his and Danneel’s room before spinning on his heel and retracing his steps back to Misha’s floor. Twice.

“This is so fucking stupid.”

At that particular moment he was restlessly pacing back and forth outside Misha’s door, muttering to himself. He’d actually made it all the way there (pat on the back for him), but actually traversing that last barrier, the one that would catapult him so far beyond plausible deniability into the realm of definitive action was apparently fucking beyond him.

He’d stop for a moment, raise his fist to knock, then freeze, recoiling away from the timber like it had exploded in his face and reeling off to continue wearing a path in the hotel carpet. This was bullshit. Scrubbing a hand impatiently over his face, he stepped up to the door again, his resolve intact, then nearly let out a girly scream as it opened in his face, tousled dark hair and a sleepy pair of blue eyes peering out at him irritably through the crack.

“Jensen?” Misha blinked owlishly at him, head tilting in a way that was not at all adorable and frowning at him in drowsy confusion. “What are you...why are you mumbling outside my room at-” he lifted an arm to his face and blinked at it dopily for a second before belatedly realising there was no watch attached to it, “-ass-o-clock am?” he finished with a yawn, raising his arm to scrub back and forth through his messy hair and not making things any easier for Jensen in the process. “Is something wrong?”

Jensen vacilitated. He could turn around right now. Tell Misha he’d made a mistake, gone to the wrong room or something, and hightail it out of there as fast as his legs could take him with Misha being none-the-wiser.

But _he’d_ know. He’d know he was too chicken-shit to take the leap and find out once and for all if this...this _thing_ between them was actually A Thing.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second longer.

Then he leapt.

**~*~**

Misha wasn’t wearing a shirt. In fact, Misha wasn’t wearing much of anything at all. A threadbare pair of plaid pajama bottoms rode low on sinful hips, and he’d apparently taken the time to slide on a pair of slippers before he’d come to the door.

The slippers were shaped like fucking cows. _Cows_ . They were huge and fuzzy and absolutely ridiculous, and one of them had a tag on it’s ear that said ‘ _Amoose me’_. Jensen would take bets that if you pressed the ear, the damn things would moo.

He fought back a semi-hysterical giggle at the sight, schooling his face to blandness he nodded at the slippers. “Cows, Misha? Really?”

Misha recoiled in mock affront. Lifting one foot and balancing precariously on the on the other, he waggled the foot in the air at Jensen. “What? I think they’re udderly uddorable,” he protested with a pout.

Jensen lost it.

His laugh rose up from his gut and exploded out of his mouth, startling Misha, startling _himself_. He threw his head back and expelled his nerves, his frustration and his fear in unabandoned mirth, chuckling through his confusion and self-doubt, leaving nothing behind but affection and fascination at how the irascible man before him was able to dispel his anxiety with no more than a simple, ludicrous action.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to ground him. Resolute, he opened his mouth to speak but Misha raised a hand and cocked his head, listening. From the adjoining bedroom Jensen heard a soft grunt, followed by the sound of someone rolling over and punching their pillow to get comfortable and he raised his eyebrows at his friend mouthing “Shit, sorry”.

Misha turned on his heel and shuffled across the room, stupid slippers flopping everywhere and making Jensen huff softly, gently closing the door to the room with a soft ‘click’. Turning, he made his way back over to Jensen with a wry expression. “Vicki is the most wonderful and compassionate woman I know,” he murmured, “but wake her up and she'll make it her mission in life to fucking _end_ you.” He grinned, then winked, adding, “ And I like you too much to be comfortable with allowing my wife to destroy your sexy ass. It's a public service, really,” he finished with a shrug.

And that there was the opening Jensen needed.

“Do you Misha?” He questioned softly. “Y’know, like me?”

Misha blinked at him in a befuddled sort of way. “Umm, yes? I just said so didn’t I? I mean, you can be a real prick sometimes I guess, and you occasionally get that stick up your ass that I just want to-” he made a scrunchie face followed by a rapid wiggling, yanking motion with his hand and Jensen absolutely _did not_ want to know what _that_ meant anytime soon, _thankyouverymuch_.

Shaking his head and blinking rapidly to clear the image that just invaded his brain at Misha’s vivid pantomime, he took a deep breath and barrelled on stubbornly. He was invested now dammit, and he refused give up until this was sorted, one way or another.

“No, Misha. I mean, do you _like_ me?” He swallowed and ran an irritable hand through his hair. Nice one Jackles, way to sound like a love-struck teenager asking his first crush if they ‘like, liked’ him.

Misha frowned, “I don’t understand the question,” Jesus, the man was frustrating. He was either totally oblivious or deliberately equivocating, “of course I like you.” he continued, taking a step closer and peering into Jensen’s eyes, “Are you drunk? Is that what this is about?”

“No!” Jensen blustered, briefly thrown. “I mean, I had a few drinks with dinner, and then Dee and I opened a bottle of wine later and I- ah...fuck this.” He clapped his mouth closed with a snap, swallowing thickly and cutting off his nervous rambling, then closed his eyes briefly; calming the butterflies rioting in his stomach and gathering his courage around him like a shield. Opened them, focussed...then launched himself at Misha.

Their lips clashed with the clumsy force borne of years of frustration, confusion and unrequited desire. Their noses collided brutally, teeth clacking against each other, and Jensen heard Misha inhale sharply in shock or pain (likely both) as his lip got smushed between them at Jensen’s assault. Grasping at Misha’s bare shoulders and jerking his body flush against his own, fingers kneading the firm muscles in his biceps (and he’d think more on _that_ later), Jensen forged on, opening his mouth and running a clumsy tongue insistently against Misha’s lips, seeking entrance, and Misha gasped in startlement and opened up, his surprise allowing Jensen to delve into his mouth, chasing his tongue which curled up and retreated like a terrified rabbit into its burrow.

First kisses are rarely often fairy-tale worthy. There’s no chorus of angels, and seldom ever fireworks unless they’re of the ‘you head-butted me you ass and now I’m seeing stars’ kind. There _are,_ however, teeth and tongues and random noses, weird smelling breath and heads tilted the wrong way, and accidentally bitten lips. You smack foreheads because you don't know them and they don’t know you, and someone uses too much pressure, or not enough, and it's generally awkward and uncomfortable. They make curious sounds that you struggle to interpret, and someone drools or uses too much tongue and you feel like they're trying to massage your tonsils.

This kiss was no exception.

Jensen eventually pulled back, licking his lips and nervously palmed the back of his neck, then dropped his hands to his sides and waited, eyeing Misha apprehensively.

“That was... _awful_ .” Misha frowned, raising a hand and scrubbing at his mouth. There was a spot of blood on his top lip and he poked at it gingerly with a finger, drawing the digit away to stare at it curiously. He tilted his head, _Castiel-like_ , frowning thoughtfully at the tacky liquid, then looked up at Jensen, blue eyes hooded, his expression unreadable.

Jensen’s heart sank like a rock.

He started to back away, intending to flee, all the while berating himself for being a fucking idiot, for letting his fucked up desires ruin a perfectly functional friendship. The only other thought in his head to get away from there as soon as humanly possible so that he could commence spectacularly falling apart in the comfort of his own richly appointed hotel suite. Maybe he’d even move hotels. Atlantas was supposedly nice. A little moist perhaps, but the technology was reported to be ahead of its time, and the ocean views were presumably spectacular. And he did like boats...

Then Misha spoke again. Stopping him in his tracks before he could make good on his plan to escape and disappear, and fucking up his world anew.

Or correcting it.

“I am sure,” he murmured, stepping into Jensen and bringing his cascading thoughts to a screaming halt. Crowding him against the door, Misha slid his hands up his biceps, ghosted over his shoulders to graze his neck with his fingertips, the three-day old stubble on his cheekbones, the sensitive spot behind his ear. A millennia of touches condensed into a single illimitable moment. Carding his fingers into Jensen’s hair, Misha angled his face down and leaned in, nosing along his jaw, his next words a mere breath against his lips, “we can do better.”

Well _,_ okay then.


	5. Pas De Quatre (Four)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pas de quatre [pah duh KA-truh]  
> Means: “A dance for four”. It is when 4 dancers perform a dance together (similar to ‘Pas de deux’ above). One of the most famous pas de quatre in ballet was the dance of the four little swans in Swan Lake.

** **

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

**_Los Angeles, California. June, 2009_ **

Misha had been staring at the text for over an hour, deleting half-typed replies, walking round his house in a fugue and only finding questions instead of answers. Finally, he lays on his bed and fires off an answer.

There was no way around it, they had to hash this out in person. Which meant being in the same room, as much Jensen kept avoiding that. It has been six weeks since they got back from Australia and the summer, well, _their_ summer, because he was a part of this thing—for now—had only a few weeks left, not counting press engagements. Then they’d both be up in Vancouver, alone, and God help them if they didn’t know where they stood.

The truth was he didn’t know what the fuck they were doing either. Their recent interactions had been cryptic at best: a party, where he felt displaced and Jensen while warm, had self consciously kept a distance. That was until he was drunk, whereupon he aimed hot stares and small, possessive gestures at Misha; guiding fingertips low on his back or curled around his bicep, and on departing a weird one-armed hug so curt it left him cold despite the balmy LA air. But then they would text, nearly every day and sometimes all day, on subjects ranging from enquiries as to how they both slept or what they were doing to dinner, to flirting seductive proposals referencing what had transpired between them to date. Intimate and familiar.

If he was honest with himself, his emotions had been bouncing off the walls in all directions like a warmed racquet ball, propelled by pounding whacks of desire - sometimes purely physical, others far more poignant. If the buildup to that kiss had been enticing and teasing, unexpected and yet predestined for months, the aftermath was revelatory. Everything about them—thought, interplay—was heightened and Misha vacillated between anxiety and elation; pure delight at being on this ride, and debilitating amounts of anticipation.

If he was dishonest with himself, which happened more often than he liked to admit, he told himself he didn’t really care what was happening as long as something was happening, and that he’d be okay with whatever the outcome, even if that kiss was just an anomaly in their ongoing flirt-a-thon and that they can just continue to settle into a ‘normal’ friendship. But that was shot to pieces during the days following and every time they’d seen each other since, where the voltage between them could only be measured in megawatts. It was pleasant while it was occurring, but it left him tense and restless, and anxious because getting a read on Jensen’s feelings was nigh on impossible, though he could concede this was partly because Jensen didn’t himself know.

It was probably fortunate (or deeply regretful) that it was summer and they were both either on scheduled partnered vacations, upholding family visitation rights and other obligations, distracted by real life and unable to corner each other and force it one way or the other. That they took the time to sit on it and let it percolate, whatever ‘it’ was. For Misha, this meant realizing that behind all the side-long looks, the laughter and physical familiarity, the innuendo and even jealousy, there was a door, waiting to be unlatched. He knew it, and he’d bet his house Jensen felt it too. They weren’t this nervous and overwhelmed (and fucking horny) for some ephemeral infatuation. Even his wife had begun hinting it was time get real about it, and for all her patience and unflappable support, she deserved some certainty too.

But if opening that door meant taking this seriously, feeling out and tending a relationship, then there were a shit load of other factors to consider, the ramifications of which made Misha’s head ache. Even putting aside all the professional implications, the timing for something new was.... _unwise._ He and Vicki had been thinking hard about finally trying for pregnancy—no small thing—and overall he’d been trying to weed out the complications and idle distractions in his life. He'd resolved to instead focus on the creative and meaningful, and he wasn’t entirely sure yet whether this thing with Jensen wouldn’t ultimately just fall into either of those categories.

His phone buzzes again.

Misha feels a headlong rush of relief, quickly derailed by nerves. Suddenly there seemed a lot at stake despite having no way to identify or quantify it.

The reply is immediate and perfunctory and Misha curses he didn’t be more specific because now he was going to be jumpy and unproductive until he heard that knock on the door.

He’s at a complete loss for what he’s going to say when Jensen arrives or what to do with himself until then. Padding into the bathroom he vigorously brushes his teeth, all the while debating whether it was an optimistic or precautionary act. Convincing himself of the later, he takes a sniff of his tee and swaps it for another, then fluffs inadequately at his hair in the mirror before marching to the kitchen for a quick inventory of available alcohol. Hovering at the half bottle of scotch, he opts for a beer from the fridge, downing it in less than five minutes despite the first few mouthfuls being deeply regrettable as they clashed with residual toothpaste. Then he stands in the doorway debating whether he needs to return for a second brush or just go with the vague hops/freshmint combo and _Jesus Christ, he needs to get a hold of himself._

In the lounge he musses with the cushions and squares the book piles on the coffee table, then forces himself to sit and attempt some exercises in mindfulness to calm himself. He’s at the point of admitting they aren’t working when he jumps from a purposeful knock at the door.

“Hey,” he says, opening it cautiously and stepping aside, only giving Jensen a bare glance.

“Hey,” Jensen returns, stepping through the entrance and waiting as Misha presses it shut, leaving them face to face in the dim hallway.

He returns his eyes to Jensen’s face, this time to linger on the terse set of his jaw, and eyes searching him back just as keenly. Jensen lets a small smile soften his features. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Misha mirrors, with a smile of his own.

They wait, allowing a luxurious moment to take each other in. It drags, until finally Jensen breaks it, taking in a swift breath. “Dude, you got a beer?” he asks rapidly.

“Oh shit, yeah. Yes! Come on in.” He turns and leads the way back to the kitchen, carefully not looking at the other man until he’s pulled a couple of bottles from the refrigerator and levered the caps.

“Thanks,” Jensen says warmly as Misha hands him one. “I see you started without me,” he adds, nodding to the previous bottle forgotten on the counter, condensation still beaded around the base.

“Guilty,” Misha concedes, before adding with a grimace “waiting with patience is not one of my notable qualities," leaving the implied comment on his nerves go unsaid. 

“Noted,” Jensen deadpans with a nod, then raises his bottle in a silent toast.

Misha returns the gesture and they both take a swig as they lean on adjoining counters. Jensen casually hooking one ankle over the other, leaving Misha to try and fail completely at appearing just as relaxed, fidgeting with the label on his bottle with his head bent to the floor.

“So...” Jensen eventually starts, disrupting the bulging silence.

Misha looks up, a sense of doom clouding over his head. “So,” he repeats, forcing a momentary smile that falls away as soon as he sees the conflict in Jensen’s eyes. He drains his beverage as a distraction, then places it with a loud clunk a bit too firmly on the surface next to him. Jensen does the same only more controlled, like he’s made up his mind about something.

Misha inhales and smooths his hot palms along his jeans. He feels like he needs to make a case, though for what he doesn’t yet know. “I guess..uh..we—”

“Fuck this.” Jensen growls impatiently, cutting him off and leaving Misha gaping like a fish. He's taken aback by the ferocity, and words abandon him.

“Um—”

Jensen launches and closes the gap between them in two short strides, and suddenly Misha’s vision is all sun-dusted skin and dancing needy green. Cool thumbs swipe his cheekbones and his face is being lifted to be kissed and _oh god_ his brain goes absolutely sublimely blank on the wake Jensen’s mouth cupping his, lips gently tugging at his own as they’re searched and seized, then hurriedly mapped. Once the surprise passes he needs so much more, his hands wrapping around Jensen’s head as he pushes back into the kiss hungrily with his body. He leavens their mouths open with his tongue to search for the other, eliciting a mewl from his companion that leaves Misha fighting back a whimper of his own. He tries to curb his gluttony, edging them apart and letting his fingers fall as he takes the time to breathe and trace Jensen’s top lip. Then the balance shifts again, Jensen sliding his palms down Misha’s shoulders to find the hands where they’ve settled on his hips. Removing them, Jensen tucks them behind his rear and covers them with his own and then leans, pinning Misha with his entire frame, hoarding control and crowding into Misha’s mouth with his tongue and _oh fuck_ is he in trouble because there’s the most fun kind of fight right there, just waiting to be played out.

Jensen draws the skirmish to a close, softening to back away but nuzzling Misha’s nose with a low hum. He releases Misha’s hands, leaving him panting and awkwardly bent backwards over the benchtop. “Uh, so that’s that then,” Jensen says roughly, wiping his bottom lip with a thumb.

 _What the everloving fuck does that mean,_ Misha thinks.

Then Jensen starts laughing; a slow chuckle that blossoms to a full shoulder shake, and Misha is completely at a loss, left with a brain that refuses to function, half a hard-on and no clue what he should be feeling or attempting to feel or say or if he wanted to fall into bed with this man or punch him in the face.

“What?” he asks, bewildered but unable to suppress a carbonated laugh forming.

“Your face,” Jensen answers unhelpfully, mid-giggle.

“What—?” Misha repeats, one hand self-consciously flying to his cheek. “What are you talking about?”

“Sorry, you looked so...shocked,” Jensen explains, finally calming.

Misha laughs, a little manically. “Well you’ve been giving me mixed signals, you fucker. You come here and with no warning do...that,” he waves an animated palm up and down between them, “like it’s the last night on earth, and then say something ominous, and...and fuck, then you laugh at me—” He stops to take a deep breath which seems to set Jensen’s mirth off again. “Some friend you are,” Misha grumbles.

Jensen laughter dies and he composes. “Are we friends Misha?” he asks, his right brow arching. “‘Cause I don’t think friends think about each other like I’ve been thinking about you. Or ‘do that’ like I really wanna do again right now,” he finishes, mimicking Misha’s gesture.

“You do?” Misha asks dumbly.

“That was...epic,” Jensen supplies, a contradictory hint of uncertainty creeping back into his posture.

“So do it.”

Jensen shuffles his feet and picks a spot on the floor to focus on. “I don’t want to. _Yet_.”

Misha rolls his head back, smoothing fingers over his eyes with a forlorn groan, pondering whether Jensen tries to be just that frustrating or if it was an innate ability. When he looks back, he finds he’s being studied again, which he stubbornly returns while he scrambles for where to start. He opts for “‘nother drink?” collecting two more beers after Jensen wholeheartedly nods.

Letting impulse rule, instead of passing one to Jensen he inches boldly into his space, placing one foot deliberately between the other man’s to align them head to toe. “Here,” he offers softly, leaving just enough gap between them to hold the bottle. Jensen tentatively reaches for it while holding his eyeline and Misha can feel the heft of his Jensen’s chest as he carefully controls his breathing.

“Let go, Jensen,” he murmurs, scraping his cheek along Jensen's matching stubble and soaking in how close they are. He finds the small of Jensen’s back and presses delicately, like they’re untested partners and a ballroom class.

Jensen leans into him and deflates, then whispers, “Do I have a choice?,” and Misha is transported to in front of the door again, with wind whistling around them and the knowledge there’s a void on the other side.

He pulls back so they can see each other. “There’s always a choice,” he assures Jensen’s skittish expression.

Jensen’s eyes dance between his. “Then I will if you will,” he says, closing his eyes and touching his forehead to Misha’s temple.

“Okay.”

Misha's reply is barely whispered, all the alarm bells and fireworks in his head muted by the body radiating warmth and tractability in front of him.

They stay like that, stilled, growing accustomed to the space they occupy. But eventually Jensen breaks the not-quite-hug and assembles himself.

“I just— this new, an’ I dunno how to do this,” he says, matter of factly. “You got a map?”

Misha sniggers gently and rolls away to stand against the counter beside him, their sides adhering now instead of their fronts. The urge to be in contact is overwhelming, more so for this discussion. He fervently wishes they were doing this in bed where he always feels intimate negotiations are, oddly, less loaded, especially with skin as a distraction.

“You need a map?” he repeats.

“I don’t necessarily need to know where I’m going, just how to get there,” Jensen explains, deliberately choosing his words.

“Very… poetic,” Misha comments, smiling.

“Shuddup.” Jensen nudges him with a hip then takes a long swig of his beer.

“This is probably the part where you tell me how you feel,” Misha says.

“Oh Jesus.”

“That’s generally what people entering relationships do, at least in my experience.”

“Is that where we are? In a relationship?” Jensen chides ambiguously.

Misha narrows his eyes as he contemplates his answer, although he doesn’t come up with a good one. “Not really….but we aren’t _not,_ ” he says slowly.

“Fuck you’re confusing.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Misha sculls his drink and crosses to the sink to rinse the empty bottle, changing tack. “What have you discussed with Danneel?” he asks over his shoulder, attempting to sound casual.

“She’s the one who made me come over,” Jensen answers wryly.

“Oh?” Misha says, turning, genuinely surprised.

Jensen drains his drink. “Yeah. She thinks ‘I need to see this through’, whatever that means.”

“Ah-huh.” Misha waits, hoping Jensen will volunteer more.

Instead he throws the question back. “What about Vicki? I know you guys are open, but how okay is she with the idea?”

“She wanted me to talk to you too.”

“Yeah I think Dee had been discussing it with her,” Jensen interjects, offhand.

“Oh! I see…” he muses, a realization dawning, before objecting, “...and we’re not ‘open’. We don’t just _fuck around_.” Jensen pulls a face of displeasure in which Misha curiously thinks he picks up a hint of jealousy, an observation that ricochets hotly around his insides. “But if someone comes along that one of us falls for, we’re not going to deny each other the experience. Within boundaries,” he adds.

“...falls for—” Jensen echoes faintly looking at the floor, like he didn’t mean to say it aloud. Misha waits for him to join the conversation again, which he does, eventually focusing back on Misha with a new intensity than has Misha’s neck warming under his shirt.

“So this isn’t just fucking around?” Jensen asks, earnest and worryingly awed.

“No?” Misha hurries to answer. “I mean, despite my more licentious daydreams about you, that’s not really what I’m into. Not that I can’t be, but—shit.” He abandons his lacking qualification. “Umm, you? Is this just a friends with benefits thing, or…?” He trails off, his gut plummeting like he’s completely misjudged everything.

Jensen’s face goes from chaotic to amused. “Dmitri, are you asking me to go steady?” Misha’s expression and reflexive ‘fuck you’ collapses under a swell of endearment and he bows his head, shaking it gently as he grins.

Jensen moves away from where he leans and approaches him. Loosening Misha’s hands from where they are lodged in his front pockets, he knits their fingers to hold Misha’s arms up in a position of surrender. “Ya know,” he says, a honey-coated smile painting his mouth, “if we're going to do this relationship thing, we better work on our communication.”

Misha tries not to balk at being trapped again, though Jensen is being anything but imposing. “Agreed,” he responds, relief and anticipation crashing together in waves as Jensen playfully sways their hands. Then Misha blurts a whispered truth he hadn't had the courage to admit yet. “I want this.”

Jensen swallows and nods slowly, focusing somewhere over Misha’s shoulder, giving him the chance to observe the approximately forty-three emotions that pass across Jensen's face.

“Can I ask you something?”

Misha shrugs. “Shoot. I’m an open book.”

Jensen gives him a ‘yeah right’ eyebrow, then continues. “Have you uh...done this with a guy before?”

That’s not what Misha was expecting at all. “A relationship?”

“Mm.”

“No. Just... you know, fucking around, here and there.” He grins at his bald contradiction. _It was complicated._ “You?” He asks, expecting a similar response. Not that they’ve got down to brass tacks of the Kinsey scale during previous conversation.

“Yeah, sorta. Once.”

“Sort of?”

“It was...I wasn’t— uh, didn’t work out. Obviously,” Jensen stammers, shrugging. He continues to play with their hands, watching as he molds and slides his fingers through Misha’s as if testing their fit.

“Hmm,” Misha hums, resolving to find out the story there. One day.

Jensen’s stare falls back to him, and Misha drops his eyes under the weight, finding Jensen's mouth instead to study in detail. Which was not the best idea as it led him to ponder all the kissing that was not yet occurring.

Then Jensen somehow flipped their hands to fold Misha’s arms behind his back and pressed closer, leaving Misha to make the resolution to disabuse him of the idea this was going to be acceptable in the long term. But not just yet. There would be time.

“So, what now then?”

 _Think. Say the right thing,_ he commands internally.Which was difficult to do, caged in an almost-hug by someone with whom you want get into a compromising position at the nearest convenience. “Um, I guess you go back to Danneel and make sure she’s really okay with this. And yourself too, for that matter,” he adds pragmatically, “this isn’t for everyone. To work, everyoneinvolved has to be secure about where they stand. Me and you, you and her. And me and Vicki.”

“‘kay,” Jensen acknowledges, eyes still restless.

“You think you can do it?” Misha asks seriously, needing a formal affirmation.

Jensen finally focuses on him and inhales sharply. “Guess we’ll find out,” he replies, and Misha nods, supposing that's as honest answer as he can give. Which is enough for someone embarking on their first polyamorous journey. “I want this, too,” Jensen adds, potently reigning in Misha’s thoughts as they expanded over the subject, and making him feel the full extent of the vulnerability that was currently symbolized by being pinned to the kitchen counter.

Jensen must have noticed his disquiet, his tone performing a somersault to turn flirtatious again. “So what do we do now?” he repeats.

“We already—”

“ _Now_ now."

“Oh,” Misha gets with the program. “How about you elaborate on just how you’ve been thinking of me.”

“Ah-ha,” Jensen chuckles, but rocks into him from knees to hips. “Nice try but I’m not sure I’m ready for that much honesty.”

Misha pouts through a smile, which has the unintended consequence of leading Jensen’s eyes to drop to his mouth in naked fascination. He arches his back so they’re pressed together, thereby maximizing the chance of cashing in on the moment. “You ready now to do _that_ again, Jensen?” he asks, scrolling his eyes rapidly to mimic their earlier coded gesture.

“Mmm-mhm,” Jensen hums, and wastes no further time closing the short distance between their mouths. Misha's heart trips and stumbles, then regains its rhythm.

 _So that’s that, then_ Misha thinks.


	6. Arrière (Fight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrière, en [ah na-RYEHR]  
> Means: “To go backward”. Used to indicate that a step is executed moving away from the audience.

** **

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

**_Vancouver, Canada. August 30th, 2009_ **

"Misha's a whore."

He didn’t mean to say it, it just burst out of his mouth.

The conversation he’d just had with Misha was still raw, chafing at him like gravel in his shoe. He’d initially thought he was okay with it, had even told Misha he was. However, if the bitterness behind the seemingly contextless comment was any indication, he was decidedly...not.

He felt a little lost, if he was being honest with himself. On the stage, in their relationship. And when the audience mentioned Misha was being “the boss”, telling people what to do without _any_ regard for what _they_ wanted, how _they_ felt, he just...snapped. It felt like he couldn’t get away from it. From _him_. Like Misha was setting all the rules and Jensen was just stumbling blindly along after him, trying desperately to keep up and not get left behind. Not look like an idiot.

Guess _that_ ship had sailed.

This whole poly thing was new to him, and while he could handle the fact that Vicki was a part of Misha’s life - they were a package deal after all. That was non-negotiable, he knew that before he went into it - it was Misha’s...extracurricular...activities that were currently pissing him off.

This was all turning out to be way more complicated than he’d expected. Call him naive, but he’d thought that it would just be _them._ No other...dalliances...for want of a better word. Of course they hadn’t explicitly spoken about that part of their, _arrangement_ , Jensen had just assumed that was how it would be.

Stupid.

**~*~**

Jensen was mad. No, fuck that, Jensen was fucking _ropable_.

All morning he’d held his emotions at bay - badly, granted - but he’d done his duty, he’d played his part. Entertained the audience, bantered with Jared, made nice with the staff and his co-workers. All the things that were expected of him. He was a fucking _professional_ after all. And he _knew_ this. He could _kick this shit_ outta the park. But the more he brooded over what Misha had done, the way he had told him - free and easy, like it was No Fucking Big Deal, like he wasn’t shattering Jensen’s insides with every flippant word that oozed from his sinful mouth; like an oil spill, sullying everything they touched and transforming what was once beautiful into something fetid, and toxic. Every single one of them a punch to Jensen’s gut, a blow to his pride, driving into and through him with a force that left him gaping; hollow and breathless - the angrier he got. _How fucking dare he_ ? What right did he have to set the rules, then break them? If Jensen could play by them - in life, in their relationship - was it that much to ask that Misha do it too? Who the fuck did he think he was? Jensen was no fuck-toy. Jesus, he _wasn’t even_ a fuck-toy. They hadn’t even broached that side of their relationship yet, and here Misha was, _cheating_ on him.

Oh they’d fooled around, given each other some mind-blowing orgasms (at last Jensen thought they were mind-blowing, who knew what Misha actually thought. Obviously not very much if he felt the need to go elsewhere), but they hadn’t _actually_ done the deed. Consummation had not yet been achieved (not through lack of enthusiasm, that’s for sure) but Jensen had to admit he was nervous, and penetrative sex seemed like A Huge Deal, the definitive nail in the coffin, so to speak. There was no coming back from it, and Jensen had been hesitant, had held back on that last step, not a hundred percent sure he was ready for that final link. It seemed so permanent. So real. Pure, undeniable confirmation that this was who he was, who _they_ were. Not to mention it fucked with his manly ideals of himself, caused him to question the way he’d been raised (not that he hadn’t already every. single. day. of the last 30 plus goddamn years fuck his life), provided indisputable proof that he was not, in fact, his father’s perfect little heterosexual boy.

But he would have gotten over it. For Misha.

He shook his head, banishing the errant thought and scowled, too entrenched in his anger for it to be any more than an irritant, a further blow to his already horribly wounded pride.

He felt stupid. Felt like an ancillary character. Just there to make the lead look good and feel better about themselves before they were brutally killed off for no other fucking reason than to further the plot.

This... _thing_ ...between them...it was complicated enough without adding _more_ people into the mix. And it _hurt_. It grated on him. Battered at his confidence and made him feel undesirable. Unwanted. His feet had been kicked out from underneath him leaving him floundering...and the worst part was he hadn’t even seen the blow coming.

Stupid.

They’d skirted around each other for what seemed like an eternity before they’d finally gotten their shit together. The doubts, the questions, the uncertainties.

The risk.

Jensen thought that was all over, thought they’d come to an understanding. Thought they were in it together, set on their path to making this - whatever _this_ was - work.

Apparently not.

Apparently Misha had different ideas on their ‘relationship’, if his actions a month ago were any indication.

Jesus, how the fuck did Vicki _do_ this? He and Misha weren’t even _married_ and he was a fucking mess. And Danneel… Shit. His respect for the women skyrocketed as his own misery surrounded him. Drowning him in a sea of insecurity and self-doubt. The women handled this so _well_ , not even a hint of jealousy from either one of them. They even seemed _happier_ , of all fucking things. Like seeing their significant others happy brought them some kind of inexplicable _joy_.

But him? Not so much. He didn’t even really know how this was supposed to _work_ , maybe sleeping with other people outside their arrangement was normal. Maybe it wasn’t A Big Deal.

Maybe he’d gotten it all wrong. Maybe it was supposed to make him _happy_ to see Misha all blissed out on sex with someone else.

Maybe Misha needed to learn to keep his dick in his pants.

Maybe he needed to get out of his own fucking head for one fucking moment and stop fucking obsessing over it.

Maybe...maybe this whole thing was wrong, maybe he couldn’t handle it after all.

Fuck.

He needed to talk to Misha. Now.

**~*~**

“You promised me there wouldn’t be anyone else!” Jensen shouted, his face flushed with equal parts anger, frustration and abject misery.

The two men stood directly in the centre of the hotel room, the rest of the plush suite largely ignored as they faced off against each other. Jensen was currently all up in Misha’s personal space, the overwhelming force of his emotions finally shattering his thinly controlled veneer.

They’d been hashing things out for over two hours - well, going around in circles really - and Jensen was at the end of his tether with what he saw as Misha’s oblique fucking reasoning and bullshit excuses that never led anywhere and sure as hell didn’t _explain_ anything or make him feel _any fucking better_ _AT ALL_ and _fuck_. This poly crap was bullshit. Just a convenient fucking excuse for Misha to sleep with whoever he wanted. For all his rebellion against the societal norm, the significance he placed on not conforming, and his constant insistence that normalcy was an insult; the man was a walking fucking cliché. Ready and willing get his rocks off with anyone and everyone who made his cock hard. And Jensen was ready to tell him to shove it all up his ass and walk the fuck out.

“I think you’ll find that’s not true Jensen,” Misha snapped, taking a step back. Then he halted his backward motion, stopping to aim a long, considered look at Jensen. Evaluating him in that infuriating way he had that Jensen was _so fucking not in the mood for_ right now.

His weariness apparent, Misha swiped a frustrated hand through his hair, palming the back of his neck and eyeing Jensen warily. Dropping his hand, his face abruptly softened and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before adding “but it can be. If that’s what you need.”

Jensen deflated a little at Misha’s words, some of the fight draining out of him, leaving him feeling sad and exhausted.

“I don’t know what I need,” he sighed. “I just know it’s not...this.” He gestured vaguely between the two men.

“What are you saying?” Misha asked, his face impassive. “You don’t need this? Us?”

Jensen sighed, “I don’t know, Misha. I’m not...I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I just...I don’t…” He stopped and blew air through his teeth, “it’s a lot, y’know?” he trailed off with a shrug. At a loss to explain what he meant.

Misha studied him, the blue eyes seeking, and Jensen avoided his gaze, looking everywhere but at him.

“I’m sorry. If it helps, it wasn’t even any good. I thought about you the whole time.” Misha said.

“Don’t placate me man, it’s insulting.”

“I’m serious.” Misha insisted. “I did think about you.”

“You’re not helping y’know.” Jensen snapped, “In fact you’re making it worse. That’s just fucking _weird_. Besides, if I’m that fucking great, you wouldn’t have done it.”

“Aaannnd we’re back to that again.” Misha sighed, exasperated.

“How would you feel if it was me who fucked someone else?’ Jensen flung the question at him, all the while knowing it was a fake. He wouldn’t do it anyway, it wasn’t in his DNA. He was loyal to a fault and Misha fucking knew it.

“You wouldn’t.” Misha stated confidently and fuck him so hard for knowing him so well. Still...

“Hypocrite.”

“Denialist.”

“Asshole.”

“Prick.”

“Whore.”

“ _Prude_.”

Ok that last one stung, but Jensen refused to show it, simply shrugging at Misha, eyebrows raised in a show of studied indifference.

Misha sighed again and turned away, moving to the mini-bar to snag a bottle of water from the bar fridge. He silently held one up to Jensen but he shook his head, declining the offering.

Closing the fridge, Misha leaned back against the bar and crossed his ankles, taking a long swig from the bottle and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “You’re different.” he said softly.

“What?” Jensen frowned, thrown by the comment’s lack of immediately identifiable context.

“You’re different.” Misha repeated.

“Bullshit.” Jensen muttered, half to himself.

“You _are_.” Misha insisted. “This thing with Vicki? The threesome? That was primarily for her. Always has been to be perfectly honest.”

“Like you didn’t enjoy it.” Jensen scoffed. “C’mon Misha, I’m not a moron. At least have the decency not to treat me like one.”

“I’m not saying that!” Misha ran a fatigued hand over his face, “I’m just trying to explain to you that this, you and I,” he gestured agitatedly between the two men, “we’re different. I lo-” swallowing, he cut himself off mid-word, and Jensen didn’t even want to _think_ about what he might have been about to say. Not now. Not during this. “I adore you,” Misha continued, straightening and placing the water on the counter, then walking toward Jensen. “You have to know that.”

Jensen couldn’t have stopped his reply if he’d wanted to. “Do you? Do you really, Misha?” The words were barely audible, almost a plea, and Jensen immediately realised he’d unwittingly revealed more than he’d meant to. Maybe even more than he was ready to admit to himself.

So he did the first thing he could think of to deflect Misha’s attention from the implications of his words, he went on the attack again. “So the others are just...what? Fuck buddies? Woman on the side?” Realizing what he’d just said, he stopped, a horrifying thought crossing his mind, “Or was it a guy? Misha? Did you-”

“No!” Misha moved forward again, hand outstretched, but Jensen backed quickly out of his reach. “Dammit Jensen...no.” he continued softly. “There are no other men, only you. You’re...you’re _mine_.”

Disarmed (and a little fucking terrified if he was to be honest) by the feelings Misha’s declaration of ownership evoked in him, he did what he did best, he deflected, “Don’t give me that shit, Misha. I know you’ve been with other men.”

“Not since you. And never again. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

“But you don’t fucking want me!” Jensen spat, feelings of rejection and insecurity giving rise to bitter anger. “You treat me like some fragile thing, stick me up on a pedestal like I’m a fucking ornament made of glass or something. Too fucking afraid to touch me in case I break. Well I’m not. I’m not empty and I’m not some...some _thing_ you can just put on a shelf until you’re ready to take it down and play with it. I won’t fucking break Misha. I _won’t_. I-” He clapped his mouth shut abruptly, biting off his tirade and breathing hard through his nose. Realizing his fists were clenched, fingernails biting painfully into his palms, he forced himself to relax, slowly unfurling his cramped fingers and shaking them, then swiping an irritable hand across his eyes, impatiently dashing away the frustrated tears that threatened to fall without his assent.

Misha looked appalled. “Jesus, Jen,” he murmured, the nickname slipping out for the first time in his shock, “is that what you think? That I don’t _want_ you? That I don’t want to fuck you?”

“You’ll fuck everyone _but_ me.” Jensen muttered wearily.

“I don’t want anyone else. I only want you. Always you. Only you.” Misha repeated, insistent.

Well then, that just...that wasn’t...Jesus. Flustered by the weight of Misha’s statement, the vehemence by which he delivered it, and the intensity in his gaze, Jensen froze, totally defenceless. Not wanting to examine the feelings the words invoked too closely, yet apparently powerless to stop himself, Jensen shuddered at the need that welled up in him. Almost nauseated by the depth of his obvious desperation.

He felt exposed, unmasked. Raw. Like Misha had peeled back his flesh and exposed the small, frightened child crouching within. Stripped bare and left naked and shivering for Misha to see. And oh did he see. All too well, apparently. He always had.

And yet...he clung to the words, shivering minutely as they permeated deep into his unconscious without his permission. He needed them like air, he realised desperately. Needed _him_.

Shit.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, shaken, at a loss for anything else to say.

“Fuck you back,” Misha threw back immediately, the sliver of a grin crossing his wan features, and Jensen suddenly laughed. It was thin and achingly brittle to his ears, but enough to cut through the tension. The cloying fugue that had settled over the room making it hard for him to breathe abruptly dissipated at the half-hysterical sound.

This roller coaster of emotion was going to break him.

“Someday, Misha. Someday.” He countered glibly. His cocky nature coming to his defence automatically.

Misha drew close, briefly hesitant, before growing more bold at Jensen’s lack of discouragement, grasping his hips and pulling him into his arms, and Jensen allowed himself to be drawn into the warmth of the other’s man’s embrace, resting his head on his shoulder and sighing.

Misha sighed in turn and nuzzled close, turning his face into Jensen’s neck, lips hot against his skin. “Some day soon, I hope,” he breathed into Jensen’s ear and Jensen shivered despite himself at the promise inherent in his words.

This was what he needed. What he craved. The reassurance that Misha wanted him. That Misha needed _him_ as much as he needed Misha.

“Yes,” Jensen pledged. “Soon.”

“You weren’t ready.” Misha murmured against his throat.

“Yeah, well...I am now.”


	7. Assemblé (Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assemblé [a-sahn-BLAY]  
> Means: When two legs are joined together in the air. It is when the dancer shoots one leg up into the air and then jumps the second leg to join the two legs together in the air. Usually the dancer will land in fifth position of plié after the jump.

** **

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

 **_Vancouver, Canada. September, 2009_ ** ****

Misha deliberates over Jensen’s economic text, then prudently taps the reply in his lap as the rest of the table’s occupants chatter around him.

He waits, watching Jensen’s expression—phone already in his hand—as he receives the message and returns a reply. It was vaguely ridiculous, organizing their evening electronically from opposite sides of the dinner table like this, _and_ trying to hide it. But Jensen gives nothing away, his thumb moving hastily around the pad before he shimmies his phone back into his front pocket, chuckling as a joke is told beside him.

Misha gives it a few minutes before he checks his again.

He folds his phone away without sending an answer, waiting instead until he catches Jensen’s eye to give him a warm smile to go with an imperceptible nod.

It had been a week and a half since Jensen had confronted him, and while he’d been attentive and there was nothing noticeably awry (at least when they’d taken turns cornering each other in their trailers), it had been a heavy shoot for Jensen in particular and it seemed only natural to just let the air between them settle by maintaining an unspoken sliver of space. The fight had rocked him more than he wanted to admit. _Fuck_ , he’d nearly lost this before it had a chance to unfurl, and small poisoned darts of self-doubt still dug at him, pricking tears in his ego through which all the reasons _this was too big_ or _this will not end well_ leached.

So there was never any question of not accepting Jensen’s invitation. Even if Jensen was cutely exaggerating the length of their impending separation, leaving Vancouver without the chance to put it to bed—as it were—wasn’t something he could let pass, not when he had the vague feeling they were between sliding doors. At the very least the argument had loaded their physical interactions since, and he craved decompression time sharing the same space and breath, a simple earth for the static under his skin as it comes in contact with another’s. _His._

**~*~**

“You sure you want me to stay?” Misha asks, shrugging off his jacket and discarding it over the rear of the couch. They'd arrived at Jensen’s apartment just as Jensen failed to stifle a resounding yawn.

Jensen turns and gives his best ‘bitch, please’ face, then follows it up with a hand on his side that slides possessively to his hip. “You trying to leave, Misha?” he says, teasing and seductive.

He looks Jensen in the eye. “I can’t foresee that happening any time soon,” he replies with a sudden vehemence which reverberates in his chest.

Jensen’s gaze cascades to his mouth before chasing it with a swift, almost bruising kiss. “Mmm good,” Jensen murmurs, satisfied as he pulls away and swiping a thumb over Misha’s bottom lip in a parting gesture. “Nightcap?” he adds cordially.

Misha shrugs, weighing his thirsts. “Sure.”

Jensen steps around the partition to the kitchen and begins to pour them each a scotch. Misha follows, feeling an invisible tether; the closer he gets, the less far he can stand to be. He crowds Jensen’s broad back and slides his palms round the curve of his waist, leaning in until Jensen shuffles him lose, turning with their drinks. Misha takes the one held for him and they toast, mirroring each other’s smiles but guarding their thoughts.

Jensen’s free hand finds the fingers on Misha’s and begin to dance, weaving and caressing. Misha appreciates the wordless exchange as they drink, the faint tautness of distress he’d been feeling the past week or so melting away in the touches, the easy nearness replacing his residual regret with a jittery sense of purpose. He leans his weight away, playfully testing Jensen’s grasp and is pulled back over his centre of gravity into Jensen's space again to have his arm folded neatly behind his back in a maneuver that has him issuing a surprised grunt. Jensen discards his empty glass and traps him entirely, his other hand cradling the back of Misha’s neck, then they’re kissing again, slow and burning like the taste of liquor on their tongues. At some point Misha manages to awkwardly work his able hand free and deposit his glass on the counter, leaving him able to roam it over Jensen’s ribs and slide it to fist the cotton covering his back.

Jensen hums, pulling away enough to breath a question between them. “I need a shower. Come with?”

Misha grins, seeing where this is going. “You want to get dirty while getting clean?” he smirks.

“Maybe,” Jensen coyly replies, kissing him once more, then adding huskily, “maybe I just don’t want you outta my sight.”

“Either works for me,” he admits. He grinds his hips lightly against Jensen’s then allows himself to be led down the hallway. He’s barely done unbuckling his belt when Jensen turns from adjusting the faucet, stepping imposingly into his space to easily slide Misha's shirt up his torso and off before turning attention to his jeans.

Somewhat abruptly Misha is alone in being naked, his cock at half mast and enduring tormenting fingertips trailing up over his thighs and abdomen to land on his nipples. The hiss he makes when they’re pinched and twisted is sucked away by Jensen’s mouth on his, the touch drifting higher to trace his collarbone and slide under his ears. He keens against Jensen’s tongue and tugs at the clothing separating them, the obstruction ploughing desire from his innards to jump underneath his prickling skin. The need to come with this man is crude and urgent.

“Clothes,” he gravely reports the misdemeanor against Jensen’s lips. Jensen responds by further foiling his fumbling attempts with buttons and then backing out of his reach, removing his own garments with deliberate indifference.

It's then Misha realizes he's being slowly and deliberately seduced, which he is ninety-nine percent okay with, except it feels...off. Like heshould be the seducer here; he’s the one who has ground to make up. It throws him back into his head for a moment, and he flashes back to the icy pit he felt in his stomach when Jensen confronted him, how dangerously close to collapse they were because he wasn’t paying attention. Then Jensen is back, persuasively kneading his hips and nipping along his jaw.

He’s pulled into the shower and under the hot stream, fielding sucking bites as he’s gently soaped and massaged, over his stomach and coarse hair to under his balls. Closing his eyes, he moans softly as Jensen takes his length in hand and issues long certain strokes and tongue-sucking kisses that soon have release coiling in wait deep in his abdomen.

“Your turn,” he says, gently breaking away to give himself an excuse to back off. Swivelling them both so Jensen is under the water he returns the same favor. Using the soft sponge, Misha leaves a trail of suds culminating in the loop down the cleft of his ass and around his groin, taking his cock in hand as he works. Jensen closes his eyes and lets Misha handle him, jaw slack until he tucks his bottom lip between teeth, spurring Misha to suck it back from any abuse he wasn't the one to issue.

He doesn’t stop when Jensen pitches forward, drunk on arousal, to drop his forehead in Misha’s shoulder. Edging them both further under the water so it trickles warmly, he strokes Jensen in earnest with one hand and rolls his testes with the other before switching attention to slide a soapy finger teasingly back and forth over his ass, Jensen rutting into Misha's hand with every swipe. Then Jensen is mashing their mouths together and grazing teeth over his lips and murmuring. “God let me—” he rasps, right before he comes, sinking nails into the flesh of Misha's ass.

It’s fast becoming one of Misha’s favorite sights, Jensen’s face at this moment, made prettier by the droplets of water beading in his eyelashes. He’s not given much time to enjoy it before Jensen recovers, walking him back into the wall and dropping to his knees, and _holy sweet fucking god_ that mouth sucking him in was pure decadence, made all the more greedy for being able to see it. He’d only been in this situation a couple of times—in the dark when one of them had slept over—so getting a florescent-lit view of the slide of his cock disappearing between Jensen’s lips has him coming with scarce warning.

Dizzy, Misha lets Jensen lick him clean and rise to his feet before wrestling a kiss from him, eager to taste himself. “Chilly?” Jensen asks when Misha shivers against the cold tile.

“Mmm.”

Jensen wraps arms around him and shuffles them back under the water to warm up before shutting it off.

Sated but still edgy, he begins to ramble. “Showers, for practical reasons, are not ideal for sexual activity. There’s lubrication issues and someone is always either getting drowned or cold. Not to mention the safety hazards.”

“You really know how to take the romance out don’tchya?” Jensen chides. He kisses Misha lightly once more then steps out to retrieve two towels, lobbing one at him.

Misha gives him a scrunched smile. _Maybe I do,_ he thinks.

They dry off and get ready to sleep, Jensen arriving in the bed from cleaning his teeth a few minutes after Misha. They lie in the middle, not quite touching, but suddenly the inch or so between them feels like five foot. The dull nervous tension is back, and he starts to wonder what the fuck is wrong with him.

“Are we good?” Misha blurts into the shadowy room. “After the other week? Do you need to talk about it, again?”

“Do you?” was the faint reply some seconds later.

Misha realizes he did. In fact he was suddenly deluged in realizations.

He realizes the distance is _him_. That while he charged Jensen with not being ‘ready’, that neither was he. Not about fucking: that was simply a discardable and dishonest label for the vulnerability he was apparently easing himself into at a snail’s pace, and that he was holding back with. Jensen, for all his fight or flight responses to what was happening between them, and his insecurities, Misha’s own had him snagged, leaving him to drag their weight. He usually revelled in not having a script to follow, despite his fear of being without anything to say. But in this, the import and complexity of it all had him directionless.

He _wanted_ , fuck did he ever. But now they’d taken that step off the cusp and were falling, somehow they’d forgotten to hold on to each other as they fell.

“I was scared,” he volunteers, his voice wavering. He clears his throat and continues. “It scared me, that I made you feel that way, that you could have ended this before it even really began.” _Fuck_ he was all nervous again, the unwinding effects of orgasm completely undone.

Jensen remains quiet but fumbles for his hand, reassuring, Misha supposes. He squeezes the fingers interlaced with his in gratitude.

“Well, I didn’t,” Jensen qualifies in a deceptively chipper tone, keeping his hand but suddenly turning on his side towards him.

Misha takes a long breath. “You were right though, I have had you on a pedestal. Not so much to protect you, as myself. Because I’m still scared.” _And I’m a fucking idiot_ he adds harshly to himself. He squirms his shoulders, trying to shrug off invisible strictures. “This thing, with you? It’s from so far out of left field that I—”

He loses his thought in an internal whirl and sighs while he finds it again. “I— if it looks like I know what I’m doing, that’s not always the case. And I might just be trying to hide that sometimes I’m a complete fuckup, on the inside. As opposed to the outside,“ he blurts on, “which, of course, is an entirely different set of challen—mmph.”

His sentence is curtailed as Jensen rolls to reach behind his head, and with grip like stone steers him into a kiss, rough and quelling and charged. “Dammit, Misha,” Jensen breathes, dotting more benign lips around Misha’s face.

“What?”

Jensen drags him closer, pressing demanding fingertips behind his hip then his ass and back as he unrolls toward him, clutching and plying pressure. He’s kissed again, lazy doting lips on his until Jensen finally pulls back, leaving Misha blinking in the light from the muted bedside lamp. “It’s not like you have the monopoly on not knowing what the fuck we’re doing. We’re both wingin’ it here,” Jensen begins planting more butterfly kisses, on his cheek, his eyes and mouth, murmuring as he goes. “All I know is...you’re in my head...under my skin...an’ I have to know what this means.”

“This?” Misha reflexively asks.

“This—all of this—” Jensen punctuates his muddled words with insistent grinds of his pelvis. “What you _mean—_ ”

“Even I seldom know what I mean,” Misha mumbles against Jensen’s chin, deflecting the static building between them and pressing at his chest.

Jensen pauses. “You know what I mean,” he admonishes, a smile in his rasp.

“Actually,” Misha sighs, “I have no fucking idea but I think that’s the point of this conversation.”

“Mmhmm,” Jensen responds. Misha isn’t sure if he agreeing or just mollifying him but he stops questioning it as Jensen kisses him again, tucking Misha’s top lip between his own licking to find his tongue. Misha reciprocates, hunger building in his mouth and his cock as he loops arms behind Jensen’s waist.

Jensen rolls them and positions himself with ease, blanketing Misha chest to toe and bearing down, drawing heat to his groin and under the skin of his neck where he sucks blood to the surface in long draughts. Misha bucks upwards, searching for friction despite his dick being slow to fill. He moans into Jensen’s attentions, into his mouth as it passes over his, at the deeply satiating slide of skin and weight on top of him, pinning and enveloping him.

His innate desire to be in the driver’s seat soon tires of waiting, rising to the fore and levering Jensen off and over, reversing their positions. He grinds down, holding a firm hand on Jensen’s head and seals their mouths together, Jensen rising to meet him as both of them harden. He starts a slow crawl down Jensen’s body, tracing spirals with his tongue that end in dainty nips in a meandering trail over his nipples to end on one thigh. Then in one long suck, he draws his cock to the back of his throat to a string of whispered curses from his companion. He blows him, achingly slow until an anchoring hand ventures into his hair.

Refusing to be directed he draws off, focusing his attention on Jensen’s balls and swiping his tongue along the sensitive ridge underneath. Jensen tilts his hips, inviting, and Misha takes the cue to swab over the pucker, licking a whirlpool which has Jensen issuing hitched sighs of pleasure. Misha jacks him as he works the muscle until Jensen squirms, hips and thighs twitching.

“Misha?” he whines.

Misha stops at the needy note in his voice and walks on his hands up either side of his torso. Jensen kneads at Misha’s sides and licks his lips, boring into Misha’s eyes with a stare that writes a fierce request.

“Please,” Jensen breathes, “don’t make me beg out loud, you shit.”

Misha hordes a smirk to mask a gut-roiling combination of appetite and apprehension. Unable to find a shred of the latter in his companion’s eyes he bends and kisses his answer, sweet and calming as Jensen preens under him and any agitation melts away.

“You have supplies?” he whispers, sitting back on his heels.

“Drawer.” Jensen jabs a thumb to the bedside on his left.

He lunges off the bed and dips into the drawer to find lube, and packs of tissues, but nothing else. “Um, condom?” he asks uncertainly.

Jensen pops up on one elbow. “You fine?”

Misha stands and shrugs. “Yes. You?”

“Yup. Then we don’t need ‘em.”

“Um, you sure?”

“Godammit Misha, I need to feel you,” Jensen all but whines.

“Jen—”

“I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine! Now get back here.”

Misha does, crawling back between his knees and popping the cap on the tube in his hands. He doesn’t try to warm it, but leans over Jensen’s chest, bracing on his free hand so he can catch every micro reaction on his face as he drags his fingertips backwards over his perineum and the furl of his entrance. Jensen’s stare doesn’t waver but he lifts his hips to the touch and parts his lips, biting on the lower with a whimper. Misha circles his middle finger testing the give of muscle, then pushes the tip easily inside. He adds another, pushing deep and Jensen keens, arching into the pressure. Misha rotates, working the rim then pulls his fingers free with a snigger, receiving a stern look in return.

“I just remember thinking—not that long ago I admit—that you’d be uptight about sex,” he explains. Jensen arcs one brow. “You’re really not tight at all,” he adds, smirking with abandon.

“You're an asshole,” Jensen remarks, suitably offended.

“I mean it. There's nothing like good ol' southern hospitality,” he adds, leer stretching to a grin.

“Misha, shut the fuck up,” Jensen growls, rising to pull him into an open kiss and sucking violently on his bottom lip. Misha pushes back. chasing the kiss and slipping one finger back into him, sinking and curling it upwards. Jensen drops his head to the bed with a gasp. “Jesus, fuck. If you don’t fuck me soon I sw—ahh”. Misha works his fingertip against the squeeze, getting substantial pleasure out of Jensen’s tiny moans and pleading, the temptation to make him a shaking, begging mess heady.

He travels his mouth to Jensen’s neck and shoulder, leaving sloppy licked kisses and biting into the muscle. Continuing over his pec and under his armpit then dragging his tongue over his ribs, he curves back to position himself, finally drawing his fingers free to hastily access the lubricant. He watches Jensen’s darting needy gaze as he paints his cock with the liquid, trying to appear unhurried and teasing when every inch of him wants to be cloaking Jensen’s acres of heated damp skin as he’s consumed.

“Turn over, on your side,” he orders spontaneously, his need for contact winning a short-lived methodological argument in his head.

“What?”

“Trust me.”

Jensen shuffles into his right side and Misha crawls behind him, lifting Jensen’s thigh to bend his upper leg at the knee, leaving his entrance exposed. Then he lines himself up.

At the first nudge past Jensen’s rim Misha has to pause, breathing against his back like he’s in a fucking lamaze class. The give is perfect, the tight roll sucking him in a cruel invitation; cruel because he wants to take his time, for the sake of Jensen’s pleasure, and his own stamina.

“Mish-?”—The question is shaky, his name curtailed.

“Sorry,” he mouths against Jensen’s back. “Fuck, you’re—” He doesn’t finish, choosing instead to sink himself deep, as deep as he dared, then further.

“Okay?” he asks, opening his eyes and dotting his lips across Jensen’s back to peer over his shoulder at his face. Jensen looked serene, almost like he was asleep, until he tests a small movement on Misha’s cock, and then clenches. “Mmmph” Misha groans at the sensation, grazing his teeth over Jensen’s shoulder-blade.

“That answer your question?” Jensen replies, amusement in his voice tempered by unsteadiness.

“Mmhmm.”

He takes a few more moments, nuzzling into Jensen’s back and caressing the thigh bent over his, relishing the purity of the connection, of being cached.  He already knew he was falling in love and while he really wasn’t the really the kind to make orgasmic ‘I love you’ declarations he made a note to himself that while Jensen felt so fucking good he could cry, this was not the time or place.

He begins to move: slow long thrusts that have both of them making small whining moans. He caresses Jensen’s balls, then wraps his palm around Jensen’s cock to stroke at different, counterpoint pace. He's then forced to pause as Jensen swivels towards him, back flat and hooking his suspended leg higher over Misha’s hip. Misha crooks his knee upwards, the angle giving a sudden new degree of control, and view of Jensen’s deep speckled chest. Jensen lifts his head, straining to bring Misha’s mouth to his with fingers clamped on his jaw and suckling his tongue.

“Fuck me...Mish—,” he mouths against Misha’s lips, “please.” Misha quickens, driving home with more force each thrust, letting the gathering rhythm choose itself. Jensen laps at his mouth, long open kisses that were more breath than touch. He grasps the hand Misha still has wrapped around his cock and begins to lead the tempo, still babbling whispered pleas into Misha’s mouth, Misha swallowing them all eagerly as fuel for each roll of his hips. Eventually Jensen’s head falls back, leaving Misha to watch his jaw arrow to the ceiling, mouth in a pretty ‘o’ as he pants in time with each of Misha’s movements.

He suddenly bats Misha hand out of the way to strip himself faster, gasping. “God, fuck, Mish, I’m gonna...fuck...please...hel—”

Misha is transfixed, absorbing every twitch in Jensen’s face, every gulping whine as he strains, torturously close to orgasm. Twisting further forward under Jensen’s raised leg, he drives in shorter faster motions until without further warning his partner tenses around him, stilled and suspended in silence for what feels like a lifetime before spilling on his trembling stomach. Misha slows, rocking him gently through his orgasm and drawing it out until he finally goes limp under his arm. He watches, moving slow caresses inside and out, leaving devoted kisses where he can until Jensen rouses again, blinking his eyes open.

Misha knew right then he was never going to be able to give this up.

“That was probably one of the most beautiful orgasms I’ve seen,” he observes honestly, smiling thinly and feeling his own hovering within reach when he wants it.

Jensen scoffs lightly and smiles, a languid fucked-out smile that has him unable to argue and Misha wanting to come right then. “What’bout you?” Jensen murmurs.

“I was busy enjoying the view.”

“Com’on,” Jensen invites, bearing backwards then pulling him down for another kiss, gentle but divining.

Misha pauses for a moment, then shoves at Jensen’s hip for him to drop his leg, so Misha can twine between them to bring them face to face. Jensen drops his hands onto Misha’s ass, legs splayed and relaxed, and looks at him: soft but reckless. They kiss again, Jensen exploring his mouth and Misha marauding back as he begins to shift inside the still tight heat. A little motion was all it took and he was right back on the edge once more.

"Are you..okay with me—?" he breathes the half-formed question.

Hands ghost up his back and cup under his ears as Jensen sinks away. “I want to see you come, Mish. Look at me.” Misha forces his eyes open but can’t focus, all sensation focused on the coil under the base of his spine.

“Fuck,” he croaks, unable to hold back and pistons a few sharp thrusts. Then he was coming, whiting out with long pulses of unabating pleasure that left him forgetting how to breathe.

Unable to hold his weight he sags to Jensen’s front, fingers massaging into his hairline at his neck and drifting up and down his side. After a minute or two he lifts his head and is met with another melting kiss to his bruised lips that ends with smiling pecks to his mouth.

He meets Jensen’s contented gaze again. “So, we good?” he asks, wincing internally at the thought of withdrawing, and cleaning up.

Jensen gives him a honeyed smile in return. “Yeah, Mish,” he says, the nickname having stuck. “We’re good.”

Misha pushes the words _too good to be true_ from his mind.


	8. Jeté, grand (Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeté, grand [grahn zhuh-TAV]  
> Means: “Large jeté”. It indicates a big leap. When you jump you shoot out the front leg to the front and and the back leg back. Your legs have to be full extended and the toes have to point. The arms can be up in fifth position or in fourth position.

** **

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

 

**_Los Angeles, California. February  2010_ **

“Fuck.”

Jensen swore quietly under his breath as his fingers slipped off the guitar strings yet again. He glanced at his watch, wholly unsurprised to note that it was 2:38am. He’d been at this for _hours_.

The piece he was currently struggling (and failing, in his – okay, _fine_ – admittedly somewhat exacting opinion) to perfect wasn’t one of the most challenging he’d attempted to play, in fact it was laughingly simple. The issue was with the _lyrics_ . Convoluted and fraught with meaning, achingly personal, with a melody that was significantly higher than his usual vocal register (and a bitch to get right to boot), he repeatedly stumbled over them, forcing him to start over more times than he cared to count. His voice was rapidly becoming even huskier than usual and beginning to falter, further preventing him from hitting the notes he needed. He cleared his throat ineffectually for the umpteenth time; his larynx felt scratchy and his soft palate was beginning to dry out, and he could feel an irritated section just in front of his uvula beginning to swell, the rasp of his tongue abrading the spot every time he swallowed. Things were _not_ going well.

His back burned with pent-up tension from hunching over his guitar, his shoulders tight and beginning to ache horribly. His left hand was cramping agonizingly from repeatedly straining to find and hold the chords as he concentrated on his singing, the pads of his fingers pink and tender; while his right twitched spasmodically, sweaty and slippery on the pick clamped tight between his fingertips.

Shaking his head irritably, he let go of the instrument with a low grunt of disgust (followed by an embarrassingly loud moan of relief), rested it on his denim-wrapped thigh and stuck the pick unceremoniously between his teeth. Hissing in discomfort, he gingerly flexed his hands, cracking his knuckles one-by-one and shaking them to get the tension out, pressing a thumb into the centre of each respective palm to ease the knotted muscle, and moaning again at how insanely good it felt. Shaking them out a last time, he impatiently wiped them on the faded fabric of his jeans, blotting away any lingering dampness. It was important to him, this song. He wasn’t allowed to spend any money (had, in fact, been _ordered_ not to. hmm) so the song was his gift, the lyrics an offering, a declaration; and he was determined not to give up until every chord – every _note_ – was flawless. His performance may only be intended for an audience of one, but it was the most important audience he’d ever played for in his life and infinitely more meaningful in countless ways. There was no way in _hell_ he was going to let himself fuck it up.

He scrubbed his fingers impatiently through his hair, huffing out a breath through his teeth and rolled his shoulders in another futile bid for relief before snagging the pick from between his teeth. Reaching for the chilled beer on the coffee table in front of him, he took a long draught from the bottle, eyes briefly roaming the sheet music set out before him. With a sigh he set the bottle back down, returning his hands to their previous contorted positioning and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths and quieting his mind. The methodical breathing had an almost instant calming effect. Settling him. Seeping into his bones until he relaxed. With a last slow exhale, he opened his eyes and focussed, ready to try again.

Resolving to give his voice a break until he had the chords down pat, he bent his head to his task, humming the melody under his breath as he strummed, his body unconsciously swaying to the rhythm dancing through his head. He had a distressingly short amount of time left to get this right, and he was determined to do it, even if it crippled him in the process. It meant too much to him to fail.

Glancing quickly at his watch between chord changes, he told himself he’d give it until 3am then pack it in for the night.

Yeah, _right_ . He couldn’t even lie convincingly to _himself_ anymore.

“Fuck!”

**~*~**

Jensen was nervous.

As he pulled the car into the unassuming driveway and parked, he took a moment to take a few deep breaths before exiting the vehicle and heading around to the back to pull out his duffle and his guitar case. Hefting one and shouldering the other, he walked slowly up the path to the front door, his nerves on high alert, jumping a little as the porch light came on automatically in response to his approach. Reproaching himself for being an idiot, he bounded up the stairs, hesitating for a second to gather his courage before taking a deep breath and rapping lightly on the door.

Misha opened the door almost immediately, a huge grin lighting up his attractive face as he caught sight of Jensen rocking from side to side impatiently on his doorstep. Reaching out, he grabbed Jensen by the front of his shirt, hauling him roughly inside and spinning him, hooking a foot behind him to swing the door shut. Jensen started to laugh but was quickly silenced by sure fingers grasping his hip and pulling him closer and a hand sliding into his hair, tilting his head down so that Misha could slot their lips together, slick tongue invading Jensen’s mouth without asking permission, nor needing to.

Jensen moaned into the kiss, dropping his guitar case on the floor, he gathered Misha up and kissed him back enthusiastically. He’d missed him. Their schedules had been out of sync lately, and he hadn’t seen his friend for a few weeks. It was killing him, this being apart. But he supposed that was what their lives were. And as much as he liked to complain about it, he also knew that without the show he never would have met him. And that was something he was thankful for every. single. day. since the day he walked on set and upended Jensen’s life irrevocably. Wonderfully.

As much as he tried to sink into Misha’s touch (he was currently nibbling at his bottom lip and _holy shit_ did Jensen love that), there was something nagging at the edges of his mind, and though he tried hard to shove it away and concentrate, it just wouldn’t leave him alone. Sighing, he snaked a hand between them, half-heartedly pressing on Misha’s chest to put some space between them and pulled back the tiniest bit with a groan. Resting his forehead against his friends he mumbled “Should we be doing this?” Gesturing vaguely with his other hand he added, “Y’know, _right here_?”

Misha chuckled and slid his hand around to the small of Jensen’s back. “Is Vic here, you mean?” he murmured, pulling Jensen closer and aligning their hips. Jensen could feel the already semi-hard bulge in his jeans pressing alongside his and he groaned despite himself. Hating that the subject even had to be broached.

“Umm, yeah.” He sighed and tilted his head to the side away from Misha’s insistent lips but Misha just mouthed along his jawline to his ear, drawing the lobe between his teeth and sucking lightly, making him shudder, the hair on his nape standing up as goosebumps spread down his neck and back. “Mish,” he moaned. “Stop.”

Misha sighed indulgently and drew back. Dropping his hand from Jensen’s hair, he nonetheless kept his fingers curled around his hip as he caught Jensen’s eye and said, “Never fear Mr. Worrywart, Vicki’s not home. We have the house to ourselves. When I told her you were coming over she decided to make herself scarce. Said she didn’t want to sit around watching you making googoo eyes at me all night.” He grinned cheekily, then arranged his features into a mock image of a dewy-eyed teenager mooning over their first crush, fluttering his eyelashes at Jensen and sighing dramatically.

Jensen felt his face heat up as he blushed furiously. “I do not!” He protested, embarrassed, all the while knowing it was true. He knew he looked at Misha with a kind of awe. He couldn’t help it. The man was like a beacon of light in his life, his point of reference in the darkness. Something he had grasped onto with both hands and refused to let go. Especially not now. Not when he had finally admitted to himself that he…

No. He wasn’t going to think about that now. Knowing him he’d end up blurting the thing he’d come here to say at Misha without any lead up. And he’d worked too hard on the damn song to ruin it with premature and impulsive declarations.

He refocused on Misha to find the man was gazing at him fondly and ugh. Why did he have to _do_ that? He looked at Jensen like he was seeing into his soul. Like he was the most important person in the world and as much as he loved it, he still had trouble _accepting_ it. Like he didn’t deserve the attention he lavished on him.

Jensen was always acting. Never quite comfortable in his own skin. Trying to be what everyone wanted him to be, do what everyone wanted him to do. The perfect man. The perfect, obedient son. The perfect boyfriend and friend and co-worker. It grated at him like an itch under his skin that he could never quite scratch. It was _exhausting_ . He was tired, so tired. Tired of the charade. Tired of the fear of condemnation. Tired of the _games_. But the mask he projected to the world instantly fell away under that intense cobalt gaze.

Misha saw through him in a heartbeat, and it terrified him at first, made him want to run, and hide. Shove him as far away as he could and never speak to him again. And he tried, lord knows _he tried_ . But Misha shouldered his way through his walls despite his desperate attempts to keep him out, with his humour and his caring and his ability to make Jensen feel like a whole person, despite what he thought of as his flaws. No, because of those flaws. Made him realise that they weren’t flaws at all. Just a tiny part of what made him beautiful. He’d come to rely on it. Find comfort in it. In _him_ . Knowing that around him he could drop everything, drop the pretense and and the mask and just _be_.

“Besides,” Misha added, “she had somewhere else she wanted to be.” He waggled his eyebrows at Jensen suggestively.

Oh. _Oh_. Well that was…kinda perfect, actually. Shaking the reflective thoughts from his head, he pulled away and bent to pick up his guitar. Straightening up, he inclined his head in the direction of the living room and he grinned “Well in that case, lead on Mr. Alone-On-Valentine's-Day-Because-Your-Wife-Ditched-You-For-A-Better-Offer.” Misha laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him down the hall toward the living room, and Jensen blushed again as he caught his murmured, “Think I got the better end of this deal,” as he followed along behind him.

**~*~**

The couch was old, lumpy and uncomfortable, and Jensen squirmed surreptitiously to try to find a position that didn’t have one of his butt-cheeks falling asleep while Misha poured them both a glass of wine. It was weird the things you noticed when you were nervous. Like the crack in the roof that Misha hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet, the bizarre fact that Misha had _a swing in his living room_ (reason; unknown, yet likely the cause of said crack _)_ , and the way the entire house smelled like cereal. Not the healthy stuff either. The sugary-sweet stuff that you get addicted to that makes your teeth rot and gives you a sugar high that ends with massive withdrawals and a headache in the middle of the afternoon. Like amphetamines. Or puppies.

As he poured Misha talked enthusiastically about the bouquet and the grapes and something about oak and something else Jensen couldn’t really give a crap about. He just wanted to get this show on the road already before he totally lost his nerve and ditched the entire thing in favour of having Misha fuck his brains out.

Pulling his guitar out of its case, he rested it on his knees and started tuning it, calling out quietly “Mish, c’mere and sit down will you please? I wanna play something for you.” As much as he tried, he couldn’t keep the nervous hitch out of his voice. He wasn’t truly comfortable playing in front of anyone. Not even his mom. So this was going to be difficult on a few different levels.

Caught by the tone in Jensen’s voice, Misha immediately stopped babbling and studied him curiously. Then without another word he crossed the room and, setting the goblets on the coffee table, plopped down on the couch next to Jensen, stretched languidly then threw one arm across the back of the couch, fingers idly playing over the fraying, threadbare fabric as he gazed at him expectantly.

Jensen swallowed nervously and kept his eyes on his guitar. Right, okay then. This was it. Best he just fucking _do it_ before he chickened out. Heart pounding, he took a deep breath and started to sing: 

 

 

> _How can you see into my eyes like open doors?_  
>  _Leading you down into my core where I've become so numb_  
>  _Without a soul my spirit's sleeping somewhere cold_  
>  _Until you find it there and lead it back home_
> 
> _(Wake me up)_  
>  _Wake me up inside_  
>  _(I can't wake up)_  
>  _Wake me up inside_  
>  _(Save me)_  
>  _Call my name and save me from the dark_  
>  _(Wake me up)_  
>  _Bid my blood to run_  
>  _(I can't wake up)_  
>  _Before I come undone_  
>  _(Save me)_  
>  _Save me from the nothing I've become_
> 
> _Now that I know what I'm without_  
>  _You can't just leave me_  
>  _Breathe into me and make me real_  
>  _Bring me to life_
> 
> _(Wake me up)_  
>  _Wake me up inside_  
>  _(I can't wake up)_  
>  _Wake me up inside_  
>  _(Save me)_  
>  _Call my name and save me from the dark_  
>  _(Wake me up)_  
>  _Bid my blood to run_  
>  _(I can't wake up)_  
>  _Before I come undone_  
>  _(Save me)_  
>  _Save me from the nothing I've become_
> 
> _Bring me to life_  
>  _(I've been living a lie, there's nothing inside)_  
>  _Bring me to life_
> 
> _Frozen inside without your touch_  
>  _Without your love, darling_  
>  _Only you are the life among the dead_
> 
> _All this time I can't believe I couldn't see_  
>  _Kept in the dark but you were there in front of me_  
>  _I've been sleeping a thousand years it seems_  
>  _Got to open my eyes to everything_  
>  _Without a thought, without a voice, without a soul_  
>  _Don't let me die here_  
>  _There must be something more_  
>  _Bring me to life_
> 
> _(Wake me up)_  
>  _Wake me up inside_  
>  _(I can't wake up)_  
>  _Wake me up inside_  
>  _(Save me)_  
>  _Call my name and save me from the dark_  
>  _(Wake me up)_  
>  _Bid my blood to run_  
>  _(I can't wake up)_  
>  _Before I come undone_  
>  _(Save me)_  
>  _Save me from the nothing I've become_  
>  _Bring me to life_  
>  _(I've been living a lie, there's nothing inside)_  
>  _Bring me to life_

As the last note of the haunting rock melody trailed off Jensen realised he had tears in his eyes and he kept them downcast as he took a deep, settling breath and moved to put his guitar on the floor beside the lounge. They cleared up pretty damn fast however as movement in his peripheral vision caused him to look up abruptly, and he was nearly thrown sideways off the couch by Misha unceremoniously climbing into his lap and kissing him. Hard.

Jensen’s hands flew up to grasp Misha’s hips and he steadied him, seating him more firmly in his lap, a stuttered groan punching out of him as Misha trailed wet, desperate kisses across his jaw and down his throat. Breathing strained, he arched his back and turned his head to give his friend better access to his ear, but Misha pulled back abruptly, surprising Jensen and leaving him cold and somewhat confused. Trailing his fingers up Jensen’s neck and making him shiver, Misha cradled his face between his hands and gazed into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Capturing him. Searching his soul. The look was so raw, so filled with adoration and need and _hope_ , Jensen found he couldn’t have torn his eyes away if he’d tried, nor did he want to.

And when he finally spoke, Jensen thought his heart was going to leap out of his chest into Misha’s and never come back. What the hell, it was his anyway.

“I love you too.”


	9. Divertimento (Rome)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Divertimento (Fr; Divertissement [dee-vehr-tees-MAHNLAY])  
> Means “Diversion, enjoyment”. Pieces of Ballet choreography called “entrées,” inserted into a classic ballet. These short dances are calculated to display the talents of individuals or groups of dancers. They are meant to add more dances to a full production ballet.

 

** **

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

 

**_Rome, Italy. April, 2010_ **

“Oww!”

“What?”

Misha twisted and felt the wall behind him, where an ornamental protrusion had dug into the back of his shoulder. “It’s just a... _thing,_ I don’t know. A sign probably, that we should be going.”

Jensen shoves with the hands firmly on Misha’s hips so his buttocks hit the cold stone again. “Wouldn’t you rather be coming?” he proposes, with a leering wiggle of his brows.

Misha arches one of his. “Well, it’s just a matter of time,” he answers, curling his hips forward as he tugs on the lapels of his friend’s jacket to restart the messy kiss they were in the middle of before the wall had so rudely interrupted. As kisses go, it was fairly terrible: too wet and badly aimed and tongues barging in and out, but since both of them were halfway to being shitfaced (again) and they were freed from convention obligations (with the exception of the dinner they were late for) and they were alone in a pretty winding alley in a city full of bold mystique and history (and tourists), neither of them gave a flying fuck how nuanced their attempts at tasting each other’s tonsils were.

It was only when he’d managed to fully untuck Jensen’s shirt and beginning to have success at worming fingers down behind Jensen's fly that he backed off with a moist “mmph” before trying to return Misha’s busy hands. “Shit, you’re right, we—uh—we should go. I can’t blow off the guys, they’re gonna know something’s up,” Jensen laments, looking around like he suspects his friends might be lurking in the shadows of the narrow alley they'd assumed was a shortcut but ended up proving a distraction.

Misha groans shallowly at what he’s beginning to realize is Jensen’s shame pendulum. “They’re going to know something’s up if you don’t straighten yourself first,” he suggests, somewhat caustically, then starts hiccuping barely-suppressed giggles at the (it seems to him) outrageously funny unintended double-entendre. “Straighten yourself!” he splutters as the giggles become a fully-fledged attack that has him bending over in all-out capitulation.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Get a hold of your shit,” Jensen orders, shaking his head and stabbing his shirt tails back behind his belted waistband before doing the bowed dance of a man trying to rearrange his (uncomfortable) junk as he rights his fly.

Misha’s amusement ebbs and he stands up. “Ahhh I’m sorry,” he says, noticing a couple of his button are unfastened and he has no memory of how it occurred. He fumbles with their closure, his tipsy fingertips proving uncooperative.

“I doubt it.”

“I rarely am, it’s true,” Misha agrees, pulling a ‘not even sorry’ face.

Jensen attempts a withering look in response but a smile sneaks into the junction of his lips. “Come’on, idiot,” he grumbles, clutching Misha’s hand and moving them along the cobbles towards the light.

They round a corner and the subdued alley abruptly opens into a wider paved street, populated by couples and groups of purposeful people who look like they know where they’re going. They, however, are mystified.

Jensen self-consciously drops his hand and pulls his phone from his jean pocket. “You remember the name of this place?”

“No. Umm, wait—! ‘La’ something?”

“That really narrows it down, thanks man.”

Misha hooks his chin over Jensen’s shoulder to peer at the scrolling information on his phone. “I left you in charge of the details. You’re the planner. I just bought the wine. Frankly, I’m surprised we’ve made it this far,” he observes. It was true, they nearly ditched the whole evening back at the hotel when they found the stairs that led to the roof. It had seemed only natural to sneak up to watch the sunset paint the city in rose and salmon whilst dispatching a rich sparkling red, and when Jensen sported the same blush as the Basilica in the afterglow of another perfect Roman blue-sky day, Misha became lost making sure his lips made contact with every faultlessly lit freckle.

“None of these names look familiar,” Jensen murmurs absently. “But didn’t Jase say it was on the river?”

“Um, yes?” he replies, arbitrarily.

“‘kay, let’s head that way then. We should find them,” Jensen says, assertively rehoming his phone in his pants.

“And ‘that way’ is which way?”

“Fucked if I know dude. But I’m…seventy-five percent sure it’s this way.” He gestures to their right, then studies the street in both directions with rumpled brows.

“You sure you don’t want to get more specific with those odds?” Misha teases. “A three out of four probability we’re going to find a restaurant doesn’t actually seem that high to me.”

“Mish, shuddup and trust me. Or offer a better opinion.”

“Oh no, I’m going to keep my opinions to myself.” Jensen returns a look of dubious regard. “Lead on, Macduff!” he adds with aplomb, throwing his arm to the street.

They step into a gap in the stream of pedestrians. “You quoting Shakespeare at me now?” Jensen asks.

“No I’m misquoting Shakespeare at you. _Entirely_ different thing,” he says cheerfully. Jensen looks sideways with exaggerated sigh, but then focuses on the task of determinedly navigating as was his Y-chromasomal right, occasionally directing them with a scant touch to Misha’s lower back.

They conclude they must be heading in the right direction since the further they get from their hotel on the outskirts into Trastevere the more people they encounter, the busy narrow streets turning teeming, with the occasional relief of a piazza opening allowing the throng to temporarily dissipate.  After about twenty minutes they do indeed reach the river, whereupon seeing establishments and people as far as they could, Jensen finally gives in and phones Jason for directions.

While Jensen makes the call Misha wanders off into the nearest doorway, housing a tiny shop not much bigger than a stall and crowded with a limited range of men’s accessories. He’s busy thumbing through a rack of exquisitely soft wool-blended scarves when Jensen finds him. “Sorted,” Jensen says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, ever succinct.

“Just a minute,” he argues. “What do you think of this?” He pulls free one that is a storm gray with a hint of heathery purple, thinking it would underscore the burnished gold of Jensen’s skin tone and mossy shades in his eyes.

“Ah, yeah, it would suit you. We better get going though—.”

“I mean for _you.”_

“Oh! Okay. Ah—”

Misha steps up to him, drapes it round his neck and loops it in front. He finds he’s pleased with the result, and a few unexpected errant thoughts ticking over possibilities in his head. “I’d like to get it, can I get it for you?”

Jensen gives him a bemused look which broadens into a hesitant smile. “Sure.”

“Thank you. I like it on you, but if you decide you don’t later, that’s okay.” Misha leans in. “I can always just use it to tie you to the headboard,” he suggests in a loud whisper.  Jensen’s mouth opens as Misha turns to pay, satisfied with gawking stare burning a hole in his back as he prises euros from his wallet. Jensen doesn’t say another word as they emerge back on to the street and continue their journey.

Whether they owed to good management or better luck, they were only a hundred yards or so from where their friends and colleagues were gathered for their group meal. Making apologies to be the last to arrive, they took the empty seats left for them on each side of one corner of the long table and proceeded to order and engage with the others, leaving their adjoining knees and occasional wandering hand to carry out a silent conversation where they were obscured by the covering cloth.

The dinner is long and lively and Misha has more food and wine than he knows is wise. It’s while they wait for their finishing round of coffee—just as Misha thinks he’s successfully enlisted Jared’s aid in a plan to ‘modify’ Richard’s suitcase in order to secretly stash the leftover orange underwear—he overhears a question directed at Jensen. The ‘What will you two do tomorrow?’ brings a broad smile to his face; they already seemed to get lumped together, and he finds the observation both amusing and warming.

“I don’t know. Misha?” Jensen asks, redirecting the question.

Misha shrugs. “Sightseeing, I suppose?” He hadn’t given it much thought, but begins to dwell on the little time they had left in the city. It had been a bizarre but magical few days. The convention was the kind of chaotic, weirdly toned occasion he felt comfortable in but Jensen hadn’t seemed to enjoy it, for the most part. Their free time had been wholly different - maybe because Jensen went from awkward and wary to relaxed and attentive, freely affectionate in ways he seldom was. At least when they weren’t alone, although he oscillated between being carelessly enraptured, and overcompensating with the usual ribbing he subjected Misha to. It all combined to make Misha mushy to the point he was sometimes flustered. They probably appeared ludicrously transparent to their close onlookers but he couldn’t bring himself to care on either of their behalfs.

As the stream of conversation moves on Misha uncovers his phone and opens the browser. A few results down in his search is a site that promises to list ‘The ten best places in Rome to kiss your lover’, which seems like as good a theme as any for a brief brush with the ancient city’s highlights. He scrolls down the page and chuckles to himself.

“What?” Jensen murmurs, crowding closer to satisfy his curiosity.

Misha holds the screen for him to view, and receives the beginnings of a smile followed hard on the heels by a reprimanding arched brow. “Hey!” Misha protests discreetly, “we’ve already done two, look!” He points to the entries for _Rooftop sunsets_  and _Trastevere alleyways._ Jensen scrunches his mouth to the side in deliberation as he takes over the screen navigation while Misha still holds the device.

“Care to share with the class?” Jason interrupts.

Jensen quickly shoves the phone towards him with the back of his hand. “Uh, it’s nothin’,” he assures unconvincingly, a delightful flush pinking his neck.

“If you say so,” Jensen’s friend smiles. “Just wondering what had you so engrossed. Nice scarf, by the way,” he adds, nodding to where it lay together with Jensen’s blazer over the rear of his chair.

“Thanks. It’s...uh, it’s new.” Jensen stammers, his blush deepening. Misha indulges a rich chortle again, and receives a swift kick to his ankle under the table for his foul. He clears his throat to cover the wince the abuse evokes, then excuses himself to the bathroom to leave Jensen to recover his cool.

Jensen meets him in the corridor on his way back. “You wanna ditch this gig?” his friend asks blithely.

“Happily. Will we be missed?”

“Pro’ly,” Jensen replies, swaying unsteadily.  Misha resolves they both go on an alcohol detox for a week or two when they get home. “But they wanna do…somethin’. And I don’t.”

“Okay, let’s sneak out then,” he suggests, whispering conspiratorially.

“We need to say goodbye, man. But we need an excuse first!” Jensen insists, before lurching into the bathroom leaving Misha musing to himself while he waits.

Two minutes later when he reemerges, Misha hasn’t thought of one. “Can’t we just say we want to call it a night?”

“That doesn’t sound suspicious _at all_.”

Misha puffs out a breath through pursed lips. “This would be a lot simpler if we just told everyone,” he muses. “Well, not _everyone,_ of course.”

“Shit, Mish, I’m drunk but not that drunk,” Jensen replies with a look of sheer terror.

“I don’t mean _now!”_

“Oh, okay. Fuck. Umm...let’s just say we have other plans and go, ‘kay?” Jensen commands, turning back to the room.

“Okay,” he agrees with a shrug, thinking _that doesn’t sound suspicious at all._

They do exactly that though, and make it outside into the freshening spring air to start walking through the still brimming crowd without any particular purpose. “Where are we going?” Misha asks after several minutes.

“I dunno. Ideas? What’s the time anyway?”

They prop against a river wall so Misha can pull his phone out to enquire, his browser opening under the lock screen. “11.20. Ish. Hey why don’t we go tick another location off this list?” he suggests, his wink indicating he's joking. Sort of.

“Seriously?”

“No! Yes, actually. In lieu of a better idea.”

Jensen gives him an appraising glance. “Anything nearby?” he asks cautiously.

Misha takes a brief look and smirks.

“What?”

“It's so cheesy,” he answers.

“The fountain?”

“Worse, the Steps. At midnight.”

“I think it's even stevens on the cheese-meter,” Jensen observes. “But I'll do it if you will.”

“Nah, it's so clichéd. Plus there’ll a million tourists there,” he argues, trying to give Jensen an out.

“Well we'll make it a million ‘n two, cause now I wanna do it!” he says with an enthusiasm that makes Misha snort in amusement.

“For real?” he prods, faintly astounded. “I mean, I'm sure you've done the tourist trail before, since this isn't your first time.”

“Fuck it, why not? Hell, that's _why_ I want to do it! Yeah I've been there, but it’s the first time there with _you,”_ Jensen supplies a smile fashioned from sunshine.

Misha grins in response. “Why not?” he echoes, wondering if he can hold out that long to get to the kissing. “Cab? he suggests. “It looks a bit of a hike.”

It takes them a while to find a taxi, but the journey over the river passes quickly and they soon find themselves in the piazza at the base of the landmark. Once again the atmosphere is still bustling, though not as crowded, with a few groups gathered around indomitable street performers.

“Top?” Jensen asks as the stand on the sidewalk.

“I’m sure the romance increases commensurate with the elevation,” he observes blithely.  

They begin climbing at a steady pace, the pots of spring flowers scenting the air as they ascend higher. “I forgot there were so many,” Jensen grumbles after a few minutes. “I think this is sobering me up.”

Misha turns to look, and judges the bulk of the climb is behind them. “Come on Grandpa, we’re nearly there. I’ll give you C-P-R at the top if necessary.”

“Fuck you. Let’s race,” is the only response he is afforded before Jensen charges ahead.

“Works every time,” Misha mutters under his breath before entering the chase.

A minute or so later they reach the upper level, lightly puffing. Jensen does an understated victory dance, so Misha punches him lightly on the shoulder for his smugness. “Loser,” Jensen teases.

“Oh I think I won,” Misha replies, winking and discreetly brushing Jensen’s palm to hook them together by little fingers. Jensen rolls his eyes, but lets Misha lead them both to the center of the balcony. “It’s impressive,” he says, taking in the monument. Small rivulets of people trickle in both directions in the soft glow of the lights bouncing off the italian masonry of the surrounding buildings. “Oh, hey,” he says, remembering the time. Releasing their hands, he fumbles for his phone to check. “Two minutes ‘til midnight!” he adds triumphantly.

“Dude there’s a lot of people ‘round.” Jensen murmurs, looking over his shoulders from where he’s hunched over the stone rail.

“Cold feet?”

“I just...what if...uh, if there’s a fan somewhere, with a camera?” he says, suddenly terse. He looks down into the distance, sucking on his bottom lip.

Misha tries not to pout. “Jensen, look at me,” he commands. Jensen straightens and turns obediently. “What’s the worst that can happen if there is?” His friend screws up his face and shifts uncomfortably, avoiding Misha’s eyeline. Misha tugs on the ends of the scarf gently to bring his attention back. “We’d be outed, and your career will die a slow death and your soon-to-be wife will bail and your family will ignore you and you’ll have to grow a beard and move to a fishing village in Maine, or New Mexico, or something.”

Jensen’s shoulders dip as he bows his head again, and Misha regrets his attempt at humor was perhaps not appropriately outside the realms of possibility to be funny, and that Jensen is genuinely gnawing on it.

“There’s no fishing in New Mexico,” his friend mumbles, causing Misha to huff a brief laugh.

“I won’t be disappointed. It was still nice to come here. With you.” He looks over the view and smiles, but it’s tinged with the sad acceptance of Jensen’s limits. It’s not like he doesn’t have his own, but Jensen’s could be unpredictable.

Suddenly dry hands are cradling his jaw and he’s being drawn into a firm and unwavering kiss that has him knotting his fists into the scarf he still holds. It gradually dissolves into delicate touches before he’s finally released.

“Okay,” he breathes, caught off guard.

“Didn’t want you to turn into a pumpkin. Or whatever.” Jensen bewilderingly replies, blushing.

“Oh,” he exclaims, eventually catching the reference. “It’s not a pumpkin she turns— nevermind.” He grins. “Aww, you want to make me a princess?”

“Shuddup,” Jensen says gruffly, but returns a smile nonetheless. “Let’s go, Cinderella,” he suggests, tucking Misha under one arm. “We still have seven more stops to make tomorrow.”


	10. Fouetté (D/s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fouetté [fweh-TAY]  
> Means: “Whipped”. It usually describes the quick whipping action of a dancer’s leg or body. The movement may be a short whipped movement of the raised foot as it passes rapidly in front of or behind the supporting foot or the sharp whipping around of the body from one direction to another. There is a great variety of fouettés.

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

 

 **_Los Angeles, California. January, 2011_ **  


“Admit it,” Misha laughs, taking a healthy slug of his scotch and nearly choking on it in his mirth. “you’re whipped.” He flicks his arm out in front of Jensen, making the universal gesture and accompanying sound of a bullwhip slicing through the air.

“You wish.” Jensen shoots back immediately, taking a satisfying mouthful of his own drink and grinning back at his friend. He starts to lean forward, intending to place his glass on the coffee table in front of him, but stills as Misha freezes for an interminable moment, a thoughtful expression on his face and a dangerous glint in his eye and _oh_. He does. Huh.

Jensen can’t deny the way his stomach flutters excitedly at the thought, his groin giving an interested twitch at the picture that crowds his iniquitous—and okay _fine_ , maybe more than slightly inebriated--brain, of Misha bending him over and spanking him until he’s pink, and aching. Maybe he’d even go so far as to tie him up first and… _Shit_ . He takes a shaky breath, blinking the tantalizing image away before he’s tempted to do something stupid like, oh I dunno, _demand_ Misha tie him up and spank him _right here, right the fuck now_ , and tries to hide the effect the mere _thought_ of it has on his miscreant cock by following through with his aborted movement to place his glass on the table. Settling back against Misha’s side, he turns to study him and yeah, _that’s what he thought_ . He may not know much about body language, only really what he needs to help him do his job, but he knows about the pupil’s uncontrolled response to desire, and he has intimate knowledge of what Misha’s pupils look like when he’s aroused. And that? That right there is arousal. Well. _Okay then_.

He quirks an eyebrow at him half-jokingly, half-inquiringly, but Misha avoids his gaze, taking another quick sip of his scotch and fussing with a non-existent wrinkle in Jensen’s shirt where it hugs his broad shoulders, first picking at the fabric, then smoothing his fingers lightly over the collar, his fingertips brushing the back of Jensen’s neck and making him shiver, the hair on his nape raising reflexively at the fleeting touch.

“It’s nothing, Jen.” Misha deflects his unvoiced question with a lazy wave of the hand clutching his glass. “It’s just…” He trails off with a shake of his head, a quick jerk, and a barely perceptible sigh that if Jensen hadn’t been so keenly attuned to every twitch of his body he would have missed. “It’s nothing,” he says again, more forcefully but no less unconvincingly than the first time, “forget it.”

But Jensen _can’t_ forget it. It’s out there now. Dangling temptingly in front of him, and now that the idea is in his mind, he finds that he can’t _not_ think about it.

He licks his lips, the hyper-aware part of his brain unhelpfully noting the way Misha’s pupils dilate even further. Finding himself abruptly powerless against overwhelming need, he nonetheless opens his mouth to deflect, but the dangerous words are relentless. They gather and charge, his frontal lobe unable to halt the stampede and cut them off before they leave his mouth. Traitor.

“We could, y’know, if you really want to,” he blurts out all at once, the words almost tripping over themselves as they leap from his mouth. He jerks an impatient hand through his hair at his sudden (but not totally unexpected, considering) lack of eloquence. “Try it, that is. If you want to…” Lowering his hand to tap restlessly on his knee he trails off, embarrassed at the hitch in his voice, the barely restrained needy whine that feels like it’s glaringly obvious for the world to see, and looks down at his hand tapping a nervous opus on his leg in tune with his racing heart. Taking a deep breath he attempts to collect himself. Clears his throat and tries again.

“I mean, I wouldn’t, y’know, _hate it_ . If you wanted to…” Yeah. That was _muuuch_ better. Good one, Jackles. Way to sound like a needy girl. Moron. “Besides,” he continues desperately, raising his eyes to focus on a point somewhere east of Misha’s left eyebrow, “I know you’ve been wanting to beat the shit out of me since the day we met,” he finishes flippantly, trying to fob it off as a joke in case he misread Misha entirely. But his shaky laugh just comes out pathetic and borderline hysterical, and his joke falls flat even to his own ears.

The air between them practically vibrates with barely restrained tension as Misha studies him coolly, eyebrow arched (that fucking _eyebrow_ ), eyes narrowed in thought, and Jensen stays focussed on the point on his forehead with laser intensity, silently berating himself for opening his damn fool mouth. Jesus, why couldn’t he just shut the fuck _up_ already? He was going to ruin _everything_ with his stupid thoughts and even stupider fantasies.

Then Misha opens his sinful mouth and proceeds to shatter Jensen’s barely held control entirely.

“We could,” he states evenly, wetting his lips with a mesmerising drag of his tongue that is borderline pornographic, “do that.”

**~*~**

“You understand what we’ve discussed?” Misha voice is soft but no less authoritative in its intensity. “You know that you can safe-word out at any time if you’re feeling uncomfortable? Any time at all Jen. I need to know you get that.”

Jensen trembled minutely as Misha reaches out a hand to cup his jaw. His fingers are gentle yet assertive, his thumb brushing lightly back and forth across Jensen’s full lower lip as he holds his face still so he can study him. Questioning. Appraising. But unfailingly tender too. Jensen can see the adoration under the steel, feel the reverence in the caress and he instinctively leans into the contact as Misha searches his gaze, keen eyes roaming his face analytically. Cataloguing every nuance in his expression for any hint of hesitation. Of doubt. Of fear.

Jensen isn’t sure what he’s projecting but it seems to satisfy his friend because after an excruciatingly endless moment Misha licks his lips and huffs quietly, nodding to himself, apparently pleased with whatever he was seeing. Then he pulls back slightly and quirks an enquiring eyebrow and Jensen’s breathing speeds up, his cock jerking at the dominance inherent in that one, deceptively simple, gesture.

Jensen swallows thickly and dips his head in assent, nerves briefly stealing his ability to voice his agreement, but Misha is persistent, saying more forcefully “I need to hear it Jensen. We can work out something more binding later if this goes well, but for now I need your affirmation, a verbal contract, if you will, or else I’m nipping this in the bud right now even before it begins.”

Heart pounding deafeningly in his ears, Jensen’s answering “Yes” is barely audible. A covetous whimper on the tail end of an unsteady breath, and he clears his throat, knowing Misha needed more. There could be no ambiguity. No miscommunication or confusion on either of their parts. If they were going to do this, they needed to do it right from the outset. Or else it had the potential to ruin everything.

But if they got it right…

Jensen shivers, the mere thought enough to set his skin tingling, his senses on high alert and his libido into overdrive. He was already painfully aroused, his cock aching and straining against the harsh denim of his jeans. And all they had done so far was _discuss_ it. Misha hadn’t even touched him except for the brief contact to immobilize his head as he studied him. But even that, _even that_ , was enough to have him teetering on the razor's edge, trapped synchronously between sublime terror, and desperate need.

This is either going to wreck him… or save him.

Jensen isn’t sure which he hopes for more.

“Yes.” he says, crystal clear.

**~*~**

The first sharp lick of Misha’s hand on the fleshy part of his backside is exquisite. A million tiny white-hot sparks blaze across his skin, quenching and electrifying it. Euphoria shoots through him sending every synapse firing, setting every nerve ending alight, adrenaline thrilling through his veins. Thought, fear, desire – all of it leaves him with the first touch of Misha’s hand to the over-sensitised flesh of his buttock and his entire world shifts on its axis. He blanks out for a moment, an hour, an infinity; white-noise overrunning his brain as his world shatters and bursts around him in a pristine rush of clarity, pinpricks of light like brilliant stars rushing out from him into the stratosphere and exploding into a myriad of colour and brilliance and blessed, blessed silence. A kaleidoscope of controlled chaos that abruptly coalesces into a sublime, primordial pattern that makes absolute, perfect sense.

Constellations made up of fragments of Jensen surround him and he can name every one of them, knows them instantly for the roadmap that they are; the disjointed and contradictory dichotomy of self he projects to the world. To his co-workers and friends. To his lovers. To himself. He aches to connect the fragmented points, to revel in their distinction and unity, to slot them back together in a chef-d'oeuvre of purpose. Then teach Misha their names. Their design.

The second slap – this time to his opposing buttock – nearly does him in completely and he loses himself to sensation. His soul takes flight, soaring out into the pure, utter bliss of submission. Of absolution. Of possession and the hunger to be possessed. And oh, _holy shit_. Grasping at the fledgling concept with the edges of his consciousness he examines it. And finds it categorically and terrifyingly sound.

It isn’t until he hears Misha’s murmured “Good boy”, reverential yet commanding, that he realises he’s forgotten to breathe.

He inhales sharply at the words, raw and ragged in his chest, the barest whimper of sound escaping his mouth with his answering exhale. Exhilaration, revelation, acceptance; all of it rushes out of him in that breath and he gives into it. Lets himself fly, knowing with utter certainty in this moment that Misha will be there to catch him when he comes down.

For the first time in forever, Jensen feels powerful. He feels free.

Oh, _fuck_.


	11. Ecarte (Break)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Écarté [ay-har-TAY]  
> Means: “Separated, thrown wide apart”.

**  
**

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

 

**_October 2011_ **

Misha can feel it.

The rope between them stretched, fibres twisting and snapping as they break, silently, one after the other.  One...two...three…

The drag and tugs on the hooks that attach him, lodged deep in his viscera, tearing, leaving little tiny hemorrhages that bleed through the desperate press of his fingers, trickling. Wasted.

He can feel Jensen breaking away, feel the yawning rift, at its widest when they’re close.

When they touch.

When they fuck.

When his nails find no purchase as they grip and scrape, his lover evaporating under him. Through him.

He can feel it, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Worse. He doesn’t even want to.

 

~

 

He’s not entirely sure when the end began, or even if they were really ever whole. There had always been stress points, flaws he thought would be welded to faint seams, with time, with the furnace of adoration. But maybe all along they were structural failures waiting to happen.

Maybe they’d been doomed from the start.

 

~

 

He’s unprepared.

If he’d known this was how it would feel he might have tried harder to avoid it. Not that anything would have made a difference. Whether it had just slipped away like shredded gossamer, or they’d overridden their Best Before date and were due to be purged, it was probably as inevitable as their getting together in the first place.

But being carved and cauterized, a part of him amputated - his lungs, since he couldn’t breathe. Or maybe his bones, his sinews and tendons all that’s left and failing miserably to give him structure, give him form or movement. This utter subterranean collapse is something, thus far, he’s had the good fortune or management to avoid.

He’s suffered losses, he’s had relationships take turns or reach their destination. He’s said goodbyes. But he’s never been so barbarically severed from someone, from himself.

He should probably count himself lucky.

 

~

 

**_Denial_ **

“You don’t mean that.”

_“Actually, Misha, I do. It’s done. I...can’t.”_

“But I was drunk, so were you. We all were. You really going to hold me accountable? No one _knew_ you were naked. It was a joke! One stupid fucking tweet.”

_“I’m not gonna lie man, you disappointed me. But it’s not just that. Don’t treat me like an idiot. This has been coming for a while. You must have known that. This —us— it doesn’t...it just doesn’t fit for me anymore.”_

“Bullshit. Jen, I’m sorry but you’re lying to yourself.”

_“That may be, but how will I ever know while we’re together.”_

“You’re making no sense!”

_“We make no sense, Mish.”_

 

~

 

**Anger**

_“This was never meant to last, never s’posed to be serious.”_

“Well that’s the first I’ve heard of it!”

_“Oh com’on Mish, you’ve never taken this fucken’ seriously. Otherwise you wouldn’t try to fucken’ out us.”_

“What about your shithead _dick_ of a best friend, he’s tried to out you for years!”

_“He’s not relevant to this discussion.”_

“This is a discussion? Fuck you! Discussions are held between reasonable, logical parties. This is a fight. This is _you_ , not facing up to what you want and who you are, and damning both of us in the process! Just... _tell_ me the fucking truth Jensen.”

 _“Jesus. Fuck. You wanna hear the truth? Here’s the truth, Misha. You fucking scare me, how you make me feel, how I lose myself? I’m in over my head sometimes. It scares me! And I can’t, I—  Dani’s number one, you know? I owe her, she married me and I fucking owe her because she’s— she puts up with all this shit, the secrets and the fucking looks from people who don’t know, with me when I get….when I_ need _you to...to— Sometimes Mish, I need you too damn much and it’s not—it’s not_ right. _She’s my_ wife!”

“You know that’s how this is supposed to work, right? She gives you what you need, I give you what you need, vice versa...she and I are a-fucking okay with it, so why not you? Is my love for you not good enough? Am I the runner up? The one destined to be forgotten? Or just bleached entirely from your browser history?”

_“Oh fuck, come on. You know that’s not what I’m saying! Anyway I could say the same about you, I mean, fuck Misha, Vic and I aren’t the only ones, you still have your ‘liaisons’, so clearly neither of us are quite enough for you.”_

“My ‘liaisons’, _air quotes,_  are not relevant to this ‘discussion’.”

_“The FUCK they aren’t.”_

“Jealousy is deeply unattractive, you know.”

_“So is flirting with any piece of skin in the room.”_

“Yeah well, it makes us seem a lot less gay. Which is what you want.”

_“Fucking hell, here we go! You know there are valid reasons, as much as I regret it, for us not to be out in the open. We both agreed on that.”_

“So why are you making me feel like you’re ashamed of your love for me? I mean, fuck Jensen, you’ve never told your family. I had to sit there at your fucking wedding at table number last to the left, and shake your father’s hand and kiss your Mom on the cheek and all the time they don’t know that I’ve fallen madly in love with their son and have been in a committed relationship for two fucking glorious years. Of fucking - let’s not forget all the gratuitously loud orgasms and kinky sex!”

_“Misha—”_

“Jesus Christ, you’re a walking fucking closeted cliche, you know that, right?”

_“Mish—”_

“What? God! This is so convenient for you now we don't have to work together.”

_“Don’t make this harder than it is. You know I don’t want to hurt you. We're still going to be friends. I still love you. Always will.”_

“Ah-ha! Are you listening to yourself right now?! We're never going to be just friends and you know that as well as I do. You can’t love me and throw this away. You’re a fucking coward. Or a liar.”

 

~

 

**Bargaining**

“Please, Jen, tell me what I have to do to make this right. I apologize. Unreservedly. I'm sorry, for everything I said. Us— we matter more than this. We’re fucking spectacular.”

_“It’s not— it’s not you Misha, there’s nothing to apologize for. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”_

“What if there were never any others. No more old hook-ups, ever. I can swear that to you now.”

_“That’s not the point anymore. This is about me, growing up.”_

“So I was part of the ‘fun’ phase of your life and now you’re moving on?”

_“To be honest Mish, It hasn’t been as much fun lately. But yeah, a little. I think we’re better off just friends.”_

“I think you’ll find that’s not true, Jensen. You know what we have, this—god help me—this connection, is more complex than that. This doesn’t come along every day. Or even every lifetime. You _have_ to know that.”

_“Well I guess that’s a risk I have to take. I’m sorry babe.”_

“Don’t fucking ‘babe’ me.”

_“Sorry.”_

“Yeah. So am I.”

 

~

 

**Depression**

“How can I go over there, Vic. I can’t make it through this. Come with me, please. I need you.”

_“You can hon, you’re strong enough. You know I can’t drop everything.  And it’s not fair on the baby.”_

“But I’m going to have to talk about him for an entire weekend. I’m not on the fucking show anymore. All I have are inane anecdotes and I don’t know why the fuck anyone wants to hear them. And I’m just going to have _him_ thrown in my face.”

_“I’m going to tell Darius to look out for you. It’s a few days, then you’ll be home again.”_

“I wish I’d never started this.  I never wanted him under my skin, now I’ve let him fucking flay me. I’ve always known I was more in this that he was.”

_“You don’t mean that Misha. Loving is never a regret.”_

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this, and deal with my bullshit. I don’t deserve you I—fuck, I love you.”

_“I know. And you love him too. And this is ‘our’ bullshit.”_

“I hate him.”

_“You don’t mean that.”_

“I want to.”

 

~

 

“We have a.. ‘nother bottle? Vic, where’s the umm... mm-merlot? I could swear..um..ss’wore we had more.”

“ _It’s already gone. And I think you should stop anyway.”_

“Don’t fucking tell me what I can ‘n can’t drink. I’m a...I’m a fucking adult.”

_“Mish, honey—”_

“Shit, I’m s-ssorry, FUCK. But Vic, please don’t call me that, right now.”

_“Hon I think you should just go to bed.”_

“Come with me—com’on—let’s...let’s make ‘nother baby.”

“ _Not tonight.”_

“Pleeease babe. I nn..need you. Don’ make me— I..I need you.”

 

~

 

_“Hi Honey, how’s Birmingham?”_

“Sss..great. I’m great. Ackshually no, ‘sa fucking shithole. But I’m great.”

_“Yeah you sure sound it. Just...be careful.”_

“No, I am, see— I’m free! I reached the only logical conclusion.”

_“Oh? What’s that.”_

“Us...him ‘n me, wuz never gonna work. He’s so—he’s so good. He can be big. But not while he's sticking ‘round that sh-sshit show so he can keep me—ya know—on the side. So he’s done us both a favor.”

_“Under the circumstances I’m going to forgive your logic skills. But please, take care of yourself. I love you. You’ll be home soon. We're here waiting.”_

“You’re a motherfucking _angel_ , Victoria. I’m...I’m not that lovable, ‘parently. I’m a disappointment.”

 

~

 

**Acceptance**

_“I just want to know if you’re okay. You haven’t replied and I’ve left, like—fuck man, ten messages in the last week.”_

“I was in England.”

_“Yeah, I remembered.”_

“How thoughtful of you.”

_“I was just worried. I am worried. I still care.”_

“That’s really not a helpful thing to say at this point.”

_“‘I’m sorry. I just needed to know you’re okay.”_

“I’m not okay. But I will be. I just need space to get my shit together before I have to see you again. Please don’t call me. I need time.”

_“Mish, I’m sorry.”_

“I’m sure you are. Goodbye Jensen.”

 

~

 

Misha can feel it.

The frayed end of the rope, floating, just beyond his reach. The tremor in his fingers as he tries desperately not to reach for it, to claw the tendrils as they dance and fade while he’s forced to endure.

The carousel carries him around and around: bewilderment, rage, the hollow fear of irreparable loss, a blessed numbness he fears more.

He _wants_ to feel. Every laceration, every fissure that will now define him, him and Jensen.

He wants to feel every shake and stammer of his heart as it limps along, keeping him alive, keeping him whole for his wife, his son, for whom he’ll be once he’s derived how to be. Afterwards.

Nietzsche had a lot going for him, but he could be a supercilious ass. That which does not kill, doesn’t always make us stronger. It can take, bend, and shatter. It can leave shrapnel, healed over from the surface but lodged where it worries and worms through our interior, leaving necrotizing scars that snag as we mold ourselves to accommodate them.

Misha wakes, each breath inadequate, his lungs vinegar. He nurses the wound, nurtures and prods at it like a loose tooth, calibrates the space it will create and savors the invisible seep of blood. His wife curls around him, nestling warmth, so he curls too, concealing the cloven incision, protecting it from her solace.

He grieves.


	12. Pirouette (Turn around)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirouette [peer-WET]  
> Means: “Spin”. A complete turnaround made on one foot while the other foot is normally in Passé position.

** **

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

**_Vancouver, Canada. August, 2012_ **

Misha rolls his eyes at Jensen's latest incursion to Operation: win me back with terrible puns. He chuckles despite himself, the easy familiarity of a masturbation joke lancing his inflamed nerves. It's ridiculous, his blood fizzing and popping with expectation. It’s the most nervous he can remember being at any point in their relationship. Despite, at this moment, being the one holding all the cards. At least in theory; he’d never be entirely sure he and Jensen weren’t subject to some capricious deterministic force with regards to each other. Their relationship seemed full of just too much randomness to be considered coincidental. They are, he feels, the embodiment of a non sequitur.

He waits for Jensen, who’d been too amenable to Misha’s invitation to come by for this to be anything less than _a big deal._  But he couldn’t put it off any longer, they had to move on from this holding pattern they were in: not quite friends, more than friends. Lovers who were no longer, and yet still in love - because nothing good could come from not acknowledging that excruciating truth, however they each choose to deal with it.

They’d both tried to break away. Jensen first, a bold and searing wrenching, then Misha, slowly building a fortress of self-preservation in the face of still being colleagues, and comrades.

He hated it. The battlements were only meant to be temporary, but he’d had to reinforce them as Jensen started with a barrage of apologies, regrets and culpabilities, then finally declarations and pleas. It began subtly and grew at times to be cacophonous, each variation of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I made a mistake’ a strike on the cobbled armour he now—come what may—intends to lower and set aside. He may not be ready to move on, and he doesn’t know if Jensen is either. But they won’t know until they faced each other and unearthed their foundations from the remaining debris.

It’s already well into the evening, but he leaves tomorrow and there wasn’t going to be another chance for weeks, so he tries not to dwell on his fatigue. The first few days on set jar until the rhythm asserts itself, and he hadn’t realized how he’d tensed, bracing for the impact of being back. He’d seen Jensen frequently enough over the summer - Italy had been the hardest occasion to face with all the tinted memories and bitter rekindling of the guileless joy which, even still, wells between them. There had been moments during that stupid resume thing that he’d actually forgotten they didn’t know how to talk to each other, or laugh, so the resulting come-down punched into his chest just like that first week was on replay.

But none of it was the same as being up here, pared back with few places to hide. Then last night he’d lain awake, as he’s done many times over recent months, revisiting conversations, tracing the touchstones of his emotional odyssey over the year, trying—and failing—to remove the soundtrack of the song Jensen had sent him a few weeks before, his own entreating melodies cradled by guitar. “For you, M.”

 _That_ song.  _Fucker._

But everything was eclipsed by yesterday on set. Purgatory, no less, it really couldn't be more metaphorical. It was, in fact, a collection of moments, but each take of the reunion hug only served to amplify the first, when that was all it took to cement the axiom of his timid heart. It _wasn’t even while they were being themselves._

Or maybe they were. It happened that way sometimes, and the irony tickled him. Certainly when he’d dared look at the rushes Cas’ reaction to Dean’s hug was _him_ , stunned by an invisible force, action and reaction. And there they were, dusted and bloodied, and _relieved._

Now it was time to cleanse.

He resists getting a drink; he needs to be sober, so he doesn't let go of too little, or too much. But he double checks he has something to offer in the way of hospitality anyway, and pokes purposelessly around the spartan apartment until he hears the buzz of his guest’s arrival, his pulse thrumming in response.

“Come in,” he says simply to Jensen, who hovers pensively in the hall. Jensen follows him to the kitchen, pausing to dump his cap and grey cotton sweater on a barstool as Misha pours a scotch, following a too-natural wordless script. He pours another for himself, because _what the fuck was he thinking?_ He makes a self promise to stop at one as they move to arrange in carefully platonic locations on the couch.

Ten minutes of small talk about family, pregnancy mood swings and crew gossip later, the conversation is becalmed. He looks at Jensen, impatience and hope colored with resignation sit in the eyes that flit towards him, then off his face to bounce around the space he occupies. Misha recognizes the rush of nostalgic regret, and tries not to mirror it.

“Thanks for coming,” he announces, perhaps too brightly. Jensen immediately looks like a deer caught in headlights but recovers, issuing a tentative but genuine smile. Then he scrubs a hand through his hair.

“I have about a hundred things in my head to say, and none of them are the right thing,” he says quietly, like he's talking to himself.

“I doubt there is _the right thing_. Let yourself of the hook,” Misha answers, more generously than Jensen deserves. “Besides, you've said a lot, it's probably my turn.” Misha almost feels guilty at the contrite fall of Jensen's face. Though it's the harsh twist of anguish in his lips that has Misha wanting to leap up and kiss it from his mouth.

But he does not.

He waits, secretly undergoing the same dilemma Jensen confessed, his emotions ricocheting between noble intent, violent pettiness and latent affection.  There is so much which could be said, but so much has already been aired, one way or another, and he's past wanting to further punish Jensen, and himself. At least that’s what he tells himself. But now he’s in the moment, his carefully manufactured control is in jeopardy.

“I miss you,” he blurts. “I'm not sure it's the right thing to say right now either. But you should know that, Jensen.”

Jensen's eyelids flutter closed and he swallows roughly. When he looks at Misha again it's through clear bright green, and the question there, the plea Misha identifies—to undergo a baptism in the dark waters of shame—spurs him on. He still can't resist the compulsion to give Jensen what he needs: flagellation, followed by blessing.

“I've tried not to, at times, but I've never succeeded,” Misha continues confessing, words beginning to fall through him to splash at his feet. “I've missed the purity of our friendship. I've missed you falling asleep in the middle of a conversation, and your petulance when I didn’t give you enough attention. I've missed the solid certainty of the warmth in your support, in your smile, in your eyes when you wanted to sneak away for sex, or comfort. I've missed ignoring you when you'd try to talk to me while you brushed your teeth, and wishing you were more vigilant at trimming your toenails when you kicked me in the middle of the night. I've missed...I miss the astonishment I had that _you_ ever wanted me—and what we had—in the first place. Or that I did too.” He pauses, the lump in his throat growing obstructive. “I miss you being an obnoxious prick because now you walk on eggshells ‘round me.”

Jensen looks miserable, and Misha wishes that he was getting some satisfaction from it. But his words are barbed in both directions.

“You should also know, that I am, now, okay with missing these things. I can and will live with the holes you left.”

That makes Jensen look up, startled. “Um, okay,” he croaks, nodding slowly, breaking. His mouth contorts, lips pressing together then snarling to one side.

“What do you want Jensen?” Misha asks, softly demanding, before Jensen disappears into his own defeat.

“What do _I_ want?” Jensen clasps his hands in his lap and shrugs awkwardly. “Uh. I—to not miss those things too. To not feel like I made one of the worst mistakes of my life, and go back. But I— I know we can't. ”

“No, we can't,” Misha confirms. “It wasn't perfect enough just to resurrect.” Jensen nods again, then glances at him, forcing a huffed smile that turns bitter round the edges.

“I'm not trying to be cruel, Jensen. I didn't ask you here to rake you over the coals, or my own regrets either. I’m sure we've well and truly beaten each other, and ourselves up.” He takes a deep breath, preparing to force the tide. “But I need to know what you want, so I know if it's what I want too.” Jensen looks up again, cautious, looking outward for the first time since he arrived.

“If we are to find each other again, we need to know where to look,” Misha adds.

“Mish—” Jensen says, pained.

“Tell me your terms, Jensen. Throw me your pitch.”

Jensen frowns, and smooths a hand down one thigh. “Umm. Okay. Ah, I want…to be with you,” he starts, less than emphatic. “But I don't mean on a day to day basis, I mean _really_ with you.”

It's Misha's turn to frown. “How so?”

“I don't know if it's even possible,” Jensen begins, then pauses to assemble, or reflect, Misha isn't sure. “I want to think about the future—with you—to make decisions together. I want—” He trails off, and bites his bottom lip.

“Go on, Jen”.

Jensen looks at him squarely. “I want to be _yours_ , Mish. And I—uh—I don't want it to be one way.”

Misha finds himself out of sync with the conversation for the first time. “You mean, like...exclusive?”

“Not necessarily. I've thought about this a lot—I've thought about everything too damn much, to be honest—and I wouldn't ask you to change for me. But I can’t do the ‘don't ask don't tell’ thing. I don't know your history like Vicki does. And I doubt I'll ever be as...as generous, as she is. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” he assures. “I need to know. You think I haven't been deconstructing us too? We were too flippant, the first time round.”

Misha doesn't miss Jensen's shoulders soften at his inference, or the aborted shuffle of his hand towards him before tucking it under his thigh. “Is that what you want?” Jensen asks, breathing out the question. “Do you want a second time?”

Misha smiles, flimsy but sincere. “Well I have no intention of a third time lucky. It’s now, or never.”

“Jesus,” Jensen breathes, rocking forward and dumping his face in his palms. “Mish—" he starts, muffled. “I swear, I _swear_  I didn't know. I told myself I loved you but I didn't know I was _in_ love with you until I pushed you away.” Jensen bursts, the words coming thick and fast. “And  _fuck—_ that sounds like some needy shit, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me but, God's honest truth, knowing that _I_ did this, because I wasn’t honest with you, with myself— “ A jerking sob halts the stampede of guilt, and Misha lets him ride it, tears prickling in his own eyes - at Jensen's pain, and the memory of his own. In some ways it had been harder for Jensen, Misha having the luxury of forgiveness.

Jensen finally stills, and Misha speaks. “You may have pulled the trigger, but we were both guilty of similar negligence. I told myself we were more than lovers - partners, but we both kept too much distance, played too many games for it to be anything other than illusory.” Jensen briefly rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and straightens. Misha continues, his tone weakening, wrung by past sorrows. “I never truly believed that you were doing anything other than experimenting.” Jensen moans, a pale, doleful noise. “And that's why I never put up much of a fight when you left.”

He waits as Jensen sniffs, wiping his face once more with his palms before dropping them to glide restlessly over his jeans.

“You want another drink?” Misha offers, half joking, but gets up at Jensen's vigorous nod at the opposing wall, wet eyes glazed over. He returns and bumps the glass against Jensen's knuckles signaling him to take it, then deposits himself, this time less than an arm length away.

“I always felt like the butt of one of your jokes,” Jensen volunteers, a memory out of the blue, the dullness in his voice making Misha’s gut twist.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, and he is.

Jensen turns to glance at him. “You really think we can do better?

“You haven't heard my terms yet,” he counters.

Misha drinks half his scotch and waits until Jensen sits back against the cushions. “Shoot,” he commands, softly.

“I want you to be able to trust me, and trust my feelings for you. Of _course_ I want that. You were— you’re—Christ Jen, I’m sorry I made you feel, anything other than—” He stops, his heart sinking, realizing just how at cross-purposes they had been about what they meant to each other. Subtlety, fatally flawed.

He inhales, resolute, and puts the thought aside to build on later. “But I need you to not second guess me. And no making decisions for the both of us.”

Jensen nods, then drains his glass sets it down before setting his jaw. “We were always shitty at communicating huh,” he observes sourly.

Something in Jensen's acceptance triggers his auto-response to nurture and enfold, and he caves under a wave of endearment, the bullet points in his head dispersing. Tilting a palm upwards, he pushes it towards Jensen's leg, into the blank space between them. Jensen looks down at the movement and takes the offering, weaving their fingers, and the sheer devastating relief at completing the circuit courses through Misha’s cells.

“I can't make promises,” he says, turning to lift Jensen's liquid gaze. “I'm not going to trust this overnight, and I doubt there's anything you can say or do to speed that up. We have fucking baggage now that we have to unpack.” Jensen takes a gulp of air and huffs, bitter. Misha wants to pull him into his arms, but he _knows_ if they touch with too much surface area they'll end up in bed and frantically fucking and he 100% knows he's not ready for that level of vulnerability. He’s not sure he’d even survive.

“But,” he adds, “I promise, if there's a future destined for us, I'm committed to finding it.” He gives Jensen's fingers a squeeze, who sighs heavily and sinks his head to Misha’s shoulder in a slow collapse. Misha lets him, feeling Jensen's distress leaving him in radiating waves.

They stay, Misha folding his cheek on Jensen's crown for he doesn't know how long. Long enough to ponder this already _feels_ different. Something he can’t pinpoint has shifted, a subtle but distinct turn, his footing feeling more assured, more matched with Jensen's than in years. Maybe all they need now was the right music to cue them so they could choose the next step.

“Don't fall asleep,” he murmurs eventually, a smile creeping into his voice at another swift return to habit. “Early call, remember.”

“Mmhmph,” Jensen huffs, before lifting away slightly and scratching at his hair. “I should go. Unless...you want me to stay?” he finishes, with a tinge of hope.

“I do, but I don't think that's the right thing, right now.”

“Yeah,” Jensen concedes, righting himself properly. “Okay.” He launches off the couch and Misha follows, waiting as Jensen puts on his sweater. He leaves the cap, choosing instead to face Misha and say a forcible “Thank you,” that means nothing and everything.

Misha parts his lips, intending to smile acceptance, but ends up being carried forward by impulse to secure Jensen in a hug. His friend takes a moment to respond, eventually curving arms hungrily around Misha's back and nosing into his shoulder.

Fingertips press through his tee into his skin, beginning to trace the undulations like braille in a forgotten book, and Misha squeezes hard once more before backing just enough to loosen their hold and let them each breathe. Jensen's hands slide upwards over his shoulders to his neck and he prepares to dodge a kiss he desperately wants but knows they should avoid. Instead he has dry lips laid on his forehead which then whisper, “Thanks, Mish. I was going crazy.”

“To be honest Jensen, I don't think I could have endured many more of your shitty puns. I'm doing us both a favor.” Jensen chuckles lightly, before Misha reiterates, more gravely, “Just remember, this’ll take time. There's no instant fix.”

Jensen hums, the noise vibrating at Misha's temple. “I'll put my plan to propose to you on hold then.”

Misha scoffs, relieved they surely couldn't be irrevocably broken if they could still employ inappropriate humor in place of feelings. “You'd best talk to Vicki first,” he qualifies.

“Hmm,” Jensen accepts, nuzzling cautiously against his cheek. "How does she feel about the beard? ’cause I gotta say, I'm not hating it.”

“I don't care what either of you think, it's coming off tomorrow as soon as I wrap. It's not even making it to the airport.” Jensen pulls back enough to look at him sporting an exaggerated pout. “It's just too long. It's a chore,” he adds, averting his eyes to avoid focusing on the perfect presentation of Jensen’s lips.

“Dani nearly kicked me out,” Jensen says after a few moments, drawing Misha back to his tender stare. “I tried to pick fights with her, too. She tried to console me and I thanked her by being total ass.”

Misha’s softens his features. “I put Vic through hell too,” he offers, “and drank half of California’s wine stock. My friends—most of whom don’t or didn’t know—considered holding an intervention. Or so I found out.”

“God, Mish, I’m sorry,” Jensen whines, trying to pull away, but Misha hauls him back into the hug until he gives up the struggle.

”Jensen, can we make a deal not to repeat apologies? I don’t need to hear it from you anymore, and it just hurts us both.” He feels Jensen duck his head against his ear. “Let’s just look ahead, okay?” Jensen holds on tighter, signalling relief—or acquiescence—and Misha gives in a little further, leaving a kiss behind his ear and scrunching fingers into his hair.

His friend eventually clears his throat. “I should go, or else we’ll stand like this all night.” Misha sheepishly releases him, assessing Jensen as he replaces his cap and squares his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says, with a forced, bashful grin. “See ya tomorrow.” He pauses, reaching to cup Misha’s jaw and delicately slide a thumb over his mouth, but when he leans forward it’s to place another chaste kiss near the corner of his eye. “Hey, Misha?” he starts jovially, turning towards the door, “you don't believe in destiny.”

“True,” Misha agrees, then catches what Jensen is referring to. “But I'll always believe in you,” he adds.

He's not sure if it's his spontaneous admission or that Jensen is again abruptly crestfallen and shaken before him, or if it's just _time,_ but he reaches a hand to Jensen's shoulder to bring them face to face once more.

“Hey,” he says softly. Jensen keeps his eyes downcast, and actually trembles under his touch. He squeezes his grip, adding a tad flippantly “one day you'll believe it too,” before realizing just how sharply his ambiguous words exposes them both.

Jensen's chest hitches as “Mish” catches in this throat. “I fucking missed you,” he adds before plastering himself to Misha’s front. His mouth follows, and Misha needs this, needs to be kissed at least as much as Jensen needs to bestow it. In fact as fingers slide around his neck and hip he wonders why he ever thought this was a bad idea, how he ever intended to let Jensen leave this conversation without this - this release, this pleaded apology and promise wrapped in—despite the bruising beginning—the reverent dry touch of lips.

Belatedly noticing he had no fucking idea what he was doing with his hands he cups Jensen’s ears, holding him from retreating back into his head as the breath they share slowly governs them tentatively back into a new orbit.

Misha eventually eases off, just enough to appreciate the soft blush on Jensen’s bespeckled features until his bleached eyelashes flutter open.

He drifts the pads of his fingers cross Jensen’s right cheekbone, and turns his mouth up at one corner. “And I, you,” he says with solemn candor, and allows the words to break his heart, just one last time.


	13. Air, en l’ (Mile high)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Air, en l’ [ahn lehr] In the air  
> Means: that a movement will be made in the air, and that the working leg will be raised to a horizontal position with the toe on the level of the hip.

** **

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

 

**_Somewhere over Nevada. November 24th 2013_ **

“Hey Mish. _Mish_.”

Jensen shook the man currently snuggled into his shoulder gently in a surreptitious attempt to wake him up without attracting the attention of their friends. He was deliberately trying to be quiet, everyone else was asleep, but the cabin of the plane they were in was small, and sound travelled easily. He didn’t want to wake anyone up. Well...no one but Misha that was.

However his snoozing friend refused to cooperate, stubbornly nuzzling deeper into his neck and grunting softly.

“Mish, Misha. Hey, wake up babe.”

“Mmmph.”

“ _Dmitri_.”

Misha opened one eye at the endearment, twisting his head and blinking (winking?) blearily up at Jensen.

“Hey there,” Jensen said softly, dropping a gentle kiss to the adorably rumpled brow, “were you sleepin’?”

Misha conveyed his absolute derision at the superfluous question by blinking sardonically. Huh. Jensen didn’t know that was even _possible_. Chalk another thing up to ‘because Misha’.

He huffed in amusement and grinned at the grumpy man on his shoulder, then bent his head to whisper in his ear. “You know what I’ve never done?” He mouthed at Misha’s earlobe, nipping at it lightly then breathing, “I’ve never joined the mile-high club.”

Misha’s breath caught and he groaned. “ _Jen…_ ”

“C’mon Mish.” Jensen wheedled, running his tongue along the shell of his ear and dipping it into the hollow, then pulling back minutely to breathe into it, “Please?”

He’d meant for it to be flippant, jokey even, but the word came out needier than he’d intended, borderline begging, and Misha shuddered and groaned softly. It may have been unintended, but Jensen knew Misha was never able to deny him when he was clingy like this. Apparently he was feeling more vulnerable than he’d realised.

Well, ok then.

Some of the prior cast they rarely saw had been added to the roster for this con. Which was _great_ , really. Absolutely fantastic. He always loved catching up with them all. However it meant less time to spend with Misha. No snuggling in the green room. There were too many curious eyes. No stolen kisses in the hallway on the way to and from engagements either, just in case. They just couldn’t risk it.

As a result they’d barely seen each other all weekend, and Jensen had missed him like crazy. They’d been at the Burbank convention, and aside from when Misha came on stage with Richard and Felicia during his and Jared’s panel they’d only really seen each other in passing.

Well...that is you excluded the fact that they’d shared a room, which didn’t really count because Jensen had gone out for drinks with some of the guys after he and Jared had arrived late Saturday, and to Jensen’s thinly veiled disgruntlement, Misha couldn’t make it. He’d had other plans, and been asleep by the time Jensen stumbled in around 4am, simply grunting and rolling over when he crawled into bed wearing nothing but his socks and snuggled up to his back.

He’d tried waking him up, rubbing his semi-hard cock optimistically against Misha’s ass and nibbling on his neck, mumbling about how his fingernails looked pretty all painted like that and pawing at his groin, trying to coax him to roll over, but Misha just growled “Go the fuck to sleep Jensen, you’re drunk” and snagged his wandering hand, tucking it securely under his arm and holding it tight against his chest. Jensen had huffed indignantly, grousing querulously under his breath as he pressed closer, adhering himself to the broad expanse of his lover’s warm back.

Then proceeded to promptly pass out.

Misha was already up and off on his morning jog when he awoke a scant few hours later with a head full of cotton wool and a mouth that tasted like an ashtray. (Yeah so he still had a cigarette or two when he was drinking. Sue him.) So morning sex had also been off the cards, not that there was he was any likelihood of that happening anyway. Misha hated it when he smoked and usually huffed around in baffled disgust until Jensen felt like he was six years old again, and had disappointed him in new and exciting ways and also backed over his favorite puppy. Twice.

So basically the crux of the matter was they hadn’t had sex all weekend, and as a result Jensen was feeling extremely sexually frustrated and somewhat sulky and petulant into the bargain. Add to that a snoozing Misha snuffling and moaning distractingly against his throat, (not to mention the whole ‘Mile-high’ thing), and you had a ridiculously horny and downright needy Jensen on your hands. Or Misha’s hands to be precise. At least that was the plan.

He slid a hand over Misha’s thigh and pressed his palm against his groin, “Please Mish,” he whined, pressing down and rubbing lightly.

Misha caught his hand, stopping him in his tracks and removing it determinedly from his crotch, placing it securely back on Jensen’s own thigh. Lifting his head from Jensen’s shoulder he caught his eye, asking, “You sure you wanna do this?” He flicked a hand out behind him, the vague gesture meant to encompass not only their friends, but the plane at large. “Here?”

Jensen’s breath caught and he swallowed, then his eyes lit up and he grinned, nodding enthusiastically, “Yeah.”

Misha studied him for a fraction of a second longer, then his face transformed with a cheeky smile and he winked, growling, “Bathroom stall. Now.”

Jensen inhaled sharply at the order, body responding instinctively to the underlying steel in the words. An uncontrollable shudder raced down his spine, his cock snapping to attention as he watched Misha’s dominant persona slide into place underneath the jokey facade. He immediately jerked to his feet without further thought, almost tripping over himself in his haste to obey.

Misha steadied him with a firm hand to his hip and a smirk, “Woah, take it easy hot-shot, we don’t wanna wake the entire plane, do we?” Jensen felt his cheeks flush and he nodded then turned, making his way unsteadily up the aisle toward the tiny stall.

He was just starting to question the life choices that led him to this moment when Misha finally joined him, grasping his hands without preamble and pulling him up from his seat on the toilet lid, then proceeded to kiss him breathless. Between tiny nips to Jensen’s full bottom lip and slipping a hungry tongue into his mouth, he murmured, “I missed you this weekend too y’know.”

Jensen returned the kisses with enthusiasm, licking into Misha’s mouth and moaning at the feel of his tongue, slick and hot against his own.

This wasn’t going to take long, Jensen was already rock hard and trembling at the mere thought of what they were about to do, his cock throbbing almost painfully and chafing against the inside of his jeans.

He wasn’t wearing underwear, of course. Didn’t have much use for it. And it’d proven to be a fortuitous decision on many an occasion, allowing Misha unfettered and immediate access during more than one quick, fumbling hook-up in a dark corner or empty room.

Misha wasn’t wasting any time, one hand in Jensen’s hair, the other fumbled impatiently at Jensen’s fly, jerking the buttons open, and Jensen moaned raggedly as he freed his cock, slid a hand inside, running seeking fingers down his length and cupping his balls, rolling them between nimble fingers.

Jensen was already panting, he reached down, grasping blindly at Misha’s pants, wanting them off, wanting, _needing_ to feel him, but Misha jerked his ass backwards, removing his crotch out of the reach of Jensen’s needy fingers.

Jensen whined his disappointment, but Misha ignored him, ghosting his lips down the line of Jensen’s jaw and sucking at his neck.

“Don’t leave a mark.”

“I know Jen,” Misha sighed, “I won’t. Not there anyway.” Jensen felt his smile flash against his skin, “You’re bossy today huh?” he murmured, licking his throat.

Jensen shivered, “Just missed you.”

“I know.” Misha repeated, “Me too baby.”

Jensen shuddered at the casual endearment, a sharp pang of need unfurling in his belly and shooting all over his body. Misha knew him so well. Knew what he wanted, what he craved. And he gave it to him freely. He encouraged his desires, fed them, nourished them. Never made him feel inferior or weak because of what he wanted, what he _needed_ . Domination without debasement. Or judgement. Only love. And he suddenly felt _so fucking grateful_ to the older man for helping him, for loving him. For allowing him to simply... _be_.

Placing his hands on either side of Misha face, he halted him, dragging his head up and away so he could look him in the eye.

“I fucking love you,” he professed, voice ragged.

“And I fucking love you,” Misha replied, his eyes softening. They stilled for a moment, gazing at each other, each saying so many things with a simple look, then Jensen tugged Misha forward into a tender kiss.

Misha huffed softly against his lips, “Sap.”

“Shuddup.”

The blue eyes were tender for a moment longer, then a twinkle crept in, turning them wicked, “ _And_ I love fucking you.”

Jensen snorted, grinning.

Then the moment abruptly disappeared in a blaze of reignited lust that almost threatened to overwhelm him. “Then get on with it will you,” he whined with a pout “I’m not getting any younger y’know.”

**~*~**

“Shit. No lube.” Misha grunted from where he was currently sitting on his heels between Jensen’s legs.

Jensen was perched on the toilet seat - both their hastily shucked pants tucked behind his back and neck in a hasty attempt to ease his discomfort - slumped as far down as he could get without falling off, his ass hanging precariously over the edge and basically hovering in mid air, with one leg hooked over Misha’s shoulder, the other spread wide and shoved awkwardly atop the basin, toes scrunched up against the tap. Misha knelt on the floor in front of him, mouth on his cock and two fingers buried deep inside his ass.

Jensen moaned as Misha twisted his fingers, crooking them and grazing his prostate, only vaguely registering that his friend had spoken, let alone what he’d actually said. “What?”

“Lubricant, Jensen. Don’t...mmnf, _fuck you taste good_...have...any.” Misha licked a long stripe up his cock, swirling his tongue around the head then drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth. Jensen’s breath hitched and he automatically bucked his hips, fucking into Misha’s mouth and moaning again.

“Don’ need it.” Jensen gasped.

“You sure?” Misha pulled off with a pop, ran his teeth lightly back down Jensen’s shaft and mouthed at his balls, drawing first one, then the other into his mouth and rolling them with his tongue. Saliva and pre-come slid down his perenium as Misha sucked, and Jensen could feel it pooling in his asshole.

That’d do.

Misha spat his balls out messily, licked his lips, then scissored his fingers and tongued around and in between them, using his own saliva in place of the missing lube, fucking them in and out of Jensen’s hole. The burn was sharp in the absence of formal lubrication, yet strangely comforting, and Jensen honestly couldn’t have given less of a fuck, he couldn’t get enough. Wouldn’t have had Misha stop for all the fucking lube in the goddamned world.

“‘m positive. Oh god...yeah that’s it, right there babe, shit…”

“Jensen…”

“Miiiish,” he whined, “I don’ need it. Promise. Spit’s good. ’m ready for fuck sake...jus-just fuck me. _Please_.”

That was apparently all Misha needed to hear because he pulled his fingers out without further discussion ( _or_ any warning) - Jensen gasped and pouted at the loss - then pushed himself awkwardly up off his heels onto his knees, surged forward (helped along not inconsiderably by a sudden downward jolt of the plane hitting some turbulence) and captured Jensen’s mouth in a sucking kiss (they both chose to ignore the slightly boinked noses that accompanied it). Jensen lowered his legs and hooked them around Misha’s waist, holding him tight and rutting up against his stomach. With a last nip to his bottom lip, Misha pulled back and stood up, steadying himself by wedging both feet against opposite sides of the narrow cubicle, then leaned down and slid his hands underneath Jensen’s shoulders, lifting him up like a child and spinning him to face the back of the stall.

Jensen banged his hip painfully on the basin as Misha crudely manipulated him into place (gonna feel _that one_ later), a small part of his mind waiting on the inevitable “You ok?”. But it never came. Misha was a man on a mission. They only had a small space to work with, and even smaller timeframe, so he was obviously trying to make the best of a bizarre situation, to Jensen’s extreme gratitude and even greater amusement.

Placing one hand on Jensen’s hip, the other on the back of his head Misha bent him forward until his cheek was pressed flat against the wall behind the toilet bowl, his knees smacking up against the bowl as he pitched forward with the motion of the plane. He thought for a second that he was going to go flying (oh, the irony) when the edge of the seat cut into the bundle of nerves under his kneecaps causing his legs to recoil and start to buckle in involuntary reflex, but Misha was there, slipping a strong arm around his waist and propping him up until he gained his balance.

Jensen - bent forward at the waist, his face smooshed awkwardly against the wall, knees throbbing, semi jack-knifed and shoved uncomfortably against the toilet bowl - flailed helplessly for a second, then burst into helpless giggles, “This is ridiculous.”

Still supporting Jensen with one arm, his other braced against the wall to anchor them both, Misha huffed out a slightly breathless chuckle of his own, “Yeah well, this was _your_ idea, Genius. Remember that when you’re whinging at me later about how your knees, back and face hurt and how you’re ‘getting too old for this shit’.”

“I know, I just…” he bit his next words off with a snap as Misha removed his hand from the wall and cupped his ass, running his thumb down Jensen’s crack, circling the loosened ring of muscle and probing gently.

Jensen bucked as he swapped out his thumb for his fingers, probing his hole, and instinctively put his hands down to support himself, but there was nothing there to lean on, and this time he overbalanced completely with a high-pitched yelp and nearly plunged face first into the toilet lid. Thank god Misha hadn’t yet removed his arm from around his waist or he’d have knocked himself out cold. Try explaining _that one_ to a plane full of curious people.

Misha burst out laughing. “Jesus Jensen,” he giggled. “You okay?”

Jensen huffed in embarrassment, mumbling “Yeah, ‘m good. Jus’ dunno what to do with my hands.”

“I can fix that,” Misha smirked. After making sure Jensen’s footing was secure (well, as secure as it was gonna get under the circumstances), he let go his waist and snagged his hands. Pulling them behind him, he settled them snugly against the small of his back and crossed his wrists.

“There you go,” he said, satisfaction and pleasure oozing from every syllable. Giving them a little pat, he trailed his fingers lightly over Jensen’s arms, asking gently, “You good baby?” Ever solicitous (dinged hip and precarious positioning notwithstanding), Jensen’s well-being was always in the forefront of Misha’s mind when they scened, and though this was no where _near_ a scene, Jensen was still in an extremely vulnerable position, and Misha would never dream of doing anything else without first making sure he was comfortable. He knew Misha wasn’t just asking about his physical comfort either, but his mental and emotional comfort too.

To anyone else it may have seemed inconsequential. To Jensen, it was everything.

And he loved him desperately for it.

Jensen’s breath caught at the combination of Misha’s words and his position, “Fuck yeah,” he breathed. He wasn’t anywhere near subspace, they didn’t have the time, but fuck it felt good anyway.

Misha ran one hand through Jensen’s hair, tugging on it, while the other slipped down to circle his hole again. “Good boy,” he murmured. “I’m going to fuck you now, and you’re going to be as quiet as you can so that we don’t get caught, aren’t you baby?”

Jesus, subspace or not, Misha _really_ knew how to push his buttons.

He sighed, trembling minutely at the dominance in Misha’s voice and his words. “Yeah Mish, okay.”

Misha leaned forward and nipped at his neck, stubble grazing the small expanse of flesh exposed above the collar of his t-shirt, the tiny hairs at his nape, arms and legs stood up, and Jensen broke out in goosebumps, the tiny protrusions flash appearing and roiling across his entire body.

Misha ran his finger around and over Jensen’s hole, the muscles spasming in reflex, then pushed the entire digit inside, the flat of his finger unerringly seeking his prostate. Jensen moaned when he found it, and his cock jerked, precome leaking from the tip to dribble on the toilet lid. Jensen barely had the presence of mind to care, but a distant part of his mind did note that they needed to remember to clean up after themselves when they were done.

He whimpered out loud as Misha added a second finger - Misha shushing him firmly - and instinctively started rocking back against his hand, fucking himself on Misha’s obscenely long fingers, hole fluttering as it caught on a knuckle, and Misha groaned brokenly behind him muttering “Fuck Jensen, you’re so beautiful baby. So perfect.”

Jensen shuddered and whimpered, “Misha, please. Fuck me.”

Misha growled lowly, a pure animalistic sound, and withdrew his fingers, grasping Jensen’s hips instead, and Jensen couldn’t help but whine at the loss. He pushed his ass backward, seeking the fullness only Misha brought him, and Misha shushed him again, murmuring, “I’m here baby, I got you.”

Then Jensen felt the blunt head of Misha cock against his hole and nothing else existed.

The burn was harsh when Misha’s cockhead first breached his hole (lack of lubricant and all that) and Jensen gasped at the sensation of hot friction, the delicate skin of his anus catching on the lip of Misha’s cock, but he took his time, worried he would hurt Jensen, pushing past the loosened ring of muscle so excruciatingly slowly Jensen thought he was going to scream with frustration.

Inpatient to feel Misha fully inside him, he pushed backwards with a shove, impaling himself to the hilt on Misha cock, jerking as the head grazed his prostate, and it was Misha’s turn to gasp, followed immediately by a wrecked moan, as he seated himself more firmly, buried himself more deeply, strong thighs flush against Jensen’s ass, then started to rock. Not thrusting in or out, just rocking them together, the constant bump and jostle of the plane (when it wasn't unbalancing them and flinging them sideways) actually heightening the pleasure.

Every roll of Misha hips rubbed his cockhead against the swollen bundle of nerves and Jensen started to keen softly, the constant pressure on the sensitive nub nearly doing him in. His cock hug heavy and full between his thighs, oozing precome down his leg, and he had a blinding moment of clarity, suddenly realising that if Misha kept going with his current approach it was a solid bet that he was going to come untouched.

Jesus. This man.

This amazing fucking man was going to make him do something he’d not yet managed to achieve his entire goddamned life. And in the cramped bathroom stall of a fucking airplane no less. All of a sudden he wanted it desperately. Craved it like air, and he whined his need, begging without words and hoping to god and all that was holy that Misha understood what he was saying.

Misha understood - of course he fucking did - and he kept rocking, the momentum building until Jensen thought he was going to explode into a shower of sensation.

He was skirting the edge, poised to tumble over, his brain nothing but impending white noise, vision starting to fade to black when there was a sharp tap on the stall door.

**~*~**

They both froze, Misha aborting his movements mid-roll, and Jensen whimpered, his breath harsh in his lungs. He dragged himself back from the edge reluctantly, the shock of his withdrawal almost painful, starbursts dancing behind his retinas as he took a deep breath, desperately trying to settle and centre himself before grunting out a guttural “Yeah?”

“Sir? I’m sorry to bother you, but the aircraft has begun its descent into Vancouver. We need you to return to your seat immediately in preparation for landing.” The stewardess’s voice was cheerful if somewhat timid.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Misha muttered under his breath, “Talk about coitus-interruptus.”

Jensen took a deep breath, shushing him with a look and cleared his throat, calling out weakly “Yeah ok. Just a sec, I’ll be out in two shakes. I’m not...uh, feeling well.” he trailed off and made a face at Misha who rolled his eyes in answer, then smirked at Misha as they went wide and he swayed drunkenly against another jolt of the plane. Shifting to counteract the motion, he bent his knees and rolled his hips in sync, fluidly riding out the wave. The unintended mimicry of their earlier rocking movement caused an explosion of sensation and Jensen’s entire body shuddered violently, his vision going momentarily unfocused and blurry. He had to bite down hard on his lip in a frantic bid to stifle the moan that threatened to come bursting out of his mouth.

Now _that one_ was gonna leave a mark.

He glared at Misha who just smiled innocently back at him and shifted again. Jensen couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath that escaped this time, and he scrabbled blindly behind him with his fingers, finding Misha’s nipple through his thin t-shirt and pinching it between his fingers.

That turned out to be the stupidest thing he could have done in the history of ever.

Misha took it as a challenge (of fucking _course_ he did). Resolutely planting his feet, fingers like steel on Jensen’s hips, holding him in place, he slid his cock out of Jensen’s hole excruciatingly slowly...then snapped his hips, driving back into Jensen and mashing his face against the fiberglass. Then he stopped, fully seated again.

Jensen’s moan was fucking deafening.

The woman had apparently heard (honestly, Jensen wouldn't be surprised if the _entire fucking plane_ had heard fuck his life) because she wasn’t giving up. If anything it just made her _more_ helpful. Fuck.

“Oh I’m so sorry, Sir,” she trilled, voice professionally sympathetic. “Are you okay? Is there anything we can do? Do you need help?” The door to the stall rattled.

Jensen panicked, “No!” he barked. “I’m...I’m fine. I’m just...I’m okay. I’m coming. Just gimme a minute.”

He felt more than heard Misha’s low chuckle, closing his eyes and groaning inwardly at his unfortunate choice of words.

The stewardess hesitated for an endless moment, then - her sense of professional solicitude apparently asserting itself - tapped on the door one last time, singing out a cheery “Well as long as you’re okay… Just make sure you come soon! And please, let me know if you need any help!”

Jensen held his breath, burning a hole in the door with his stare until he heard her footsteps fade. Then he glared at Misha (who was currently making bizarre faces in an attempt to control and silence his laughter), spitting a vehement “Bastard” at the man shaking in mute, barely restrained hysterics behind him.

Misha deigned to curb his mirth long enough to raise an eyebrow, simply shrugging (both actions managing to do all sorts of interesting things to his insides. Literally _and_ figuratively), and flashing a grin at him. Then he sighed dramatically and started to pull out, saying “Well I guess that’s _that_ then.”

No.

Fucking.

Way.

Jensen was having _none_ of _that_ . His hands flew off his back, reaching blindly behind him he clawed at Misha’s ass, pulling him in and hissing through gritted teeth, “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Dmitri. You are _not_ leaving me like this.”

“Oh really?” Misha drawled, thrusting back inside Jensen with a jerk, and holy motherfucking shit, that was even _better_ than the rocking “Dmitri huh?” Misha slid his cock back out, almost to the tip adding “think you’re in control now do you?” -then back in again, _fuck_ \- “issuing orders” -and out, his hips gaining momentum with each thrust, Jensen grunting louder and louder with each new abuse to his prostate- “making demands” -in- “my bossy” -out, they were both panting now- “bossy” -in- “ _bossy_ ” -out, voice dropping to a growl- “perfect” -in, on this one Misha leaned forward, spreading himself over Jensen’s back and breathing into his ear “good boy.”

And Jensen was coming. Hard. And totally untouched.

His knees gave way with the strength of his orgasm, Misha had to hold him up as he kept thrusting, fucking into him, chasing his own release with the determined single-mindedness that comes from being fully focussed on one thing and one thing only. And Jensen kept coming. His orgasm drawn out by Misha’s cock continuing to scrape and drag over his prostate with every thrust.

Mindless pleasure.

That’s what he was reduced to.

He started to sob in time with each new jab at the sensitive, swollen bump. His knees gave way fully and Misha was bodily holding him up. Hips pumping frantically, Jensen could feel Misha’s cock swelling, getting impossibly harder, then with a final sharp snap of his hips and a guttural moan, he finally stilled, and Jensen felt his release flood his insides, pumping into him, coating his walls, each new spurt shooting deep into his core and he was certain he was going to come all over again just from the pure and utter bliss of it.

Jesus Christ.

**~*~**

They scrambled around frantically, each trying to redress himself in the tiny space without accidentally elbowing the other in the face, and Jensen could swear it wasn’t this complicated beforehand. Would have happily placed money on the fact that the bathroom had somehow shrunk in between them getting their kit off, and attempting to sort themselves out again. Surely it hadn’t been this cramped earlier? They couldn’t move without one of them banging into the other one, smacking an arm against a wall or stepping on the others foot.

Misha stood at the door, and raised his eyes at Jensen.

“Ready? If we’re quiet, we should be able to get back to our seats with everyone still none-the-wiser.”

Jensen nodded and Misha turned to unlock the door, but Jensen put a hand out and stopped him for a second. Reaching to cradle his friend’s face, he ran his thumb over his lips then kissed him one last time, lingering in their little bubble just a little longer. “Thank you,” he whispered, “This was...perfect. Exactly what I wanted. In fact it was even better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

Misha smiled and leaned in again, kissing him back and whispering, “Anytime babe.” Then he pulled back and grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Jensen, “And I do mean anytime.”

Jensen laughed and dropped his hand, gesturing magnanimously at the door and saying. “Lead on, good Sir.” Misha winked and murmured “Oh I do like it when you call me Sir”. Turning back to the door with a smile, he unlocked it and they snuck out together as silently as they could…

...straight into a rousing round of applause.

Fuck.


	14. En Avant (Moving forward)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avant, en [ah na-VAHN]  
> Means: “To the front” or “Forward”. Used to indicate that a given step is executed moving forward, toward the audience.

** **

**~*~**

**MISHA**

**~*~**

 

 

**_Los Angeles, California. January, 2015_ **

“Hey,” the rich voice rumbles in his ear, it’s owner slinking hands around Misha’s waist to hug him from behind. He’d heard the dull clink of Jensen resting his glass somewhere behind him as he approached, but the intrusion is still a welcome surprise.

“I thought you were on salad duty,” Misha replies, leaning into the warmth of Jensen's chest. He hadn't realized he was a little on the chilly side until he had over six feet of hot Texan adhered to his back. He could be forgiven, the way the children were running around the yard in barely anything at all. Other than friends, the climate was about the only other thing he missed about LA; being able to wear short sleeves as the new year sun went down was a simple luxury.

“Nah, Dee took over so I snuck out. Just to make sure the pack wasn’t turning on you.” One of the kids screams indignantly, as if to illustrate Jensen’s point.

Misha doesn’t reply, choosing instead to finish his drink and deposit the empty goblet on the bannister in front of him so his arms were free to loop over Jensen’s, securing them both in the backwards embrace. “So how was Aspen?” he asks eventually.

“Good, yeah. Cold. Fun.” Misha feels Jensen shrug, unapologetic for his typical brevity. “How was Japan?”

“Fucking trippy,” Misha answers. “But good. Likewise cold. Mostly fun. Long-haul international flights with toddlers are a true test of character. I, for one, came back a better person.”

Jensen nuzzles into his neck. “It’s not like you have much to improve on,” he murmurs.

Misha's mouth contorts while he appraises Jensen’s remark, then gives up. “Is that a compliment? Or sarcasm?”

“It’s a compliment, Mish. Take it - I know it’s difficult for you.” Misha does, tipping his head to nestle against the one at his shoulder in acknowledgement of Jensen’s indirect expression of devotion. Indirectly was the usual way for him to expresses it, and right now it warms him up even more than Jensen’s body already is.

“You okay?” Jensen asks out of the blue, catching him off guard.

“Why do you ask?”

“You seem— I dunno. Tense.”

“I’m tired, mostly,” he replies. He _is_ tense, he supposes. Weary in general and a bit down about a few things he wanted to avoid involving Jensen in. There was nothing he couldn’t deal with, and he didn’t want his friend upset on his behalf when he was mostly just feeling, rather melodramatically, that the world was against him.

“Mostly?” Jensen prompts, but Misha doesn’t answer beyond a shrug of his own.

Jensen’s hands slip from under his to run exploratory thumbs up either side of his spine, picking up a couple of tender knots. “Hhmm,” he hums disapprovingly, then starts to knead at Misha’s shoulders, expanding his way out from the base of his neck. “You are tense.” The tone of the remark is disapproving, but tempered by concern.

“Unghf,” is all Misha is capable of replying, Jensen’s fingers bringing his discomfort to the surface to walking the line between profound relief and pain. He’s probably due for a trigger point session, he notes to himself. “God, you’re good,” he groans.

“You know it, baby,” Jensen croons at his ear.

Misha makes a disparaging noise and rolls his eyes. “There’s a reason I’ve kept you around this long, it’s true,” he muses.

“More than one, I hope.”

“You want a list?”

“Yes.”

“Which begins with your magic fingers —and dick?”

“I don’t care about the order, as long as they’re both included.”

Misha chuckles under his breath, then grunts thickly as Jensen hits another angry ball of nerves.

“I’ve been thinking about us,” his temporary torturer says after a minute or two of silence, bar the children’s vocal power struggles and faint music drifting from the house.

“That sounds ominous.”

Jensen stops working Misha’s shoulders but keeps caressing fingertips on his neck. “Call it a New Year’s resolution.”

“Go on…” he urges cautiously. Jensen being evasive was always a cause for suspicion, in his experience. If he has a conflict or a need to resolve, he usually comes right out with it. But when he’s indirect Misha had learned he’s usually up to something, rather than reluctant to get to the point.

The other man sighs. “I know we can never be in the open, and we don’t need to be. Having this is enough,” Jensen says, breath pooling against Misha’s neck.

It was true. As much as he liked to joke, it was easier having their ‘pretend’ relationship portrayed as a joke than to hide it altogether. It was a strategy he’d decided on when it became obvious they were never going to mask themselves completely, and to try and do so was most likely setting them up to fail. Jensen hadn’t always agreed with it, but he went along with the approach since it meant more often than not Misha was the one taking the fall. But there were times Misha found himself petulantly defying his own policy; usually at the worst time, and in front of as large an audience as possible to bear witness to his fuckups.

“Mmhmm?” he prompts into the prolonged pause.

Jensen moves around him to perch on the deck rail next to where he stands, fixing him with a determined look. “But, I guess I don’t like us looking so— I dunno...distinct.”

“Distinct?” he questions, not yet following.

Jensen continues. “I don’t want to start sharing everything we’re doing together, but I don’t think it’s healthy—anymore anyway—to not share anything.” He folds his arms like he’s waiting for a response, but Misha is still trying to read between the lines.

“Okay…?”

“If we can’t be a couple, we can at least be a team, right?”

“A team?”

Jensen reaches for his hand. “You know I have your back Mish, don’t you.”

“Umm, Jen—?”

He stands abruptly and takes Misha’s face between his hands. Whatever this was about, it was important to him; Misha understood that much.

“I want everyone else to know I have your back too.” The look Jensen affords him is so potent he has to drop his gaze from the green one, flaxen flecks illuminated by the declining sun overpowering him.

His normal response to someone in his life being protective and righteous was to feel piqued, and rather than offend them back and tell them not to step on his hard-won sense of autonomy, he would just become a shameful grouch. But with Jensen—who was at times _very_ protective—he generally let it slide. Sometimes, he even liked it, a response he found more confusing than anything. And right now, he was confused. More so because he tried hard to _not_ involve Jensen in anything which might make him upset on his behalf. It was what Misha considered to be a cornerstone to his place in the relationship; as friend, partner, and especially in the bedroom, that he always tries to be the one person Jensen doesn't feel responsible for in some way. Instead, since Jensen is always taking it upon himself to be the guardian of others, Misha aims to be the safe harbor where he can shelter. It was a role he felt to his core, which is why he feels conflicted even though he has no idea what the point of Jensen's declarations is.

He lists into Jensen’s hold, some of the weight he’d been subconsciously carrying around ebbing into the touch and melting away. Sighing heavily, he looks up and asks, “So, what do you have in mind?”

“I have a plan,” Jensen answers with a blinding grin.

Misha's brow shoots skyward. “Plan?”

Jensen shrugs again. “Ehhh more some ideas.”

“You’re hardly filling me with confidence here, Jackles.” Now he’s more suspicious than ever.

Jensen’s face turns serious again, his palms dropping to mold to the base of Misha's neck. “I’m not being secretive, Mish. I just want your faith in me.” A smile breaks over his face again. “And maybe that shirt.”

Misha looks down at the sock monkey t-shirt he wears—a sample from the run of apparel for the new fundraising project for his charity—and plucks at the hem. “You want my faith _and_ the shirt off my back? You don’t ask for much.”

“Don't you have a spare?” Misha gives him a quizzical look. “What! I like it, okay? I mean I'd rather have the one that smells of you, but if you have one going begging, can I have it before we hit San Fran?”

Jensen pulls out all the ‘I'm so adorable’ stops, and the dubious expression Misha is trying to maintain, folds.  “Alright! Okay! Remind me before you leave.”

“Good boy,” Jensen hums lasciviously, dropping his arms to tuck his palms in Misha’s back pockets and hauling him closer.

“That’s my line,” Misha admonishes, before a couple of playful pecks are dropped on his mouth, delaying his next question. “I’m curious to know what’s behind this,” he asks, because he suddenly,  _overwhelmingly_ is.

The three children choose that moment to burst from the garden and up onto the deck, running (or in JJ’s case, more tottering) past them and disappearing just as quickly leaving a trail of breathless giggles.

“Look at the colors out there,”Jensen remarks, looking over Misha’s shoulder. He twists and takes a glance at the stirring sky, streaked with butter and coral.

“Majestic,” he nods, then turns back, “but don’t change the subject.”

Jensen’s eyes slide back to him, but Misha can tell by the glaze he’s looking elsewhere. “Over five years Mish, can you believe it? If you don’t count our hiccup.”

“Hiccup?” Misha asks wryly, puzzled and amused at the sudden reminiscence.

Jensen bows for a moment, then when he looks up with a self-effacing tilt of his head, his gaze is clear. “It took losing you to figure out  just what I had to lose.”

Misha holds his acute stare for a moment, then gently moves away under a deluge of mixed emotions. They were a mix of old and new, some memories still having a sharp edge despite being insulated by time and the rich veins of affection and conviction that suffused their bedrock. He snags his wine glass as he turns and walks the few steps to the table to where the open bottle sit. Pouring a refill for each of them, he attempts to re-sort his feelings back into their compartments, then holding up Jensen’s glass to be taken he beckons him to follow.

They take a seat on the outdoor settee, the dark wicker creaking as they do. He holds his right arm aloft so Jensen can navigate underneath and angle against him, heels casually crossed on the low slatted table. Waiting until they’re both settled, he takes a long draught and then resumes the conversation.

“I think you did us both a service,” he says mildly. “I suspect we otherwise would have had a protracted and irreversible demise. Instead, we both had the chance to step away and see what we could be, not what we were at the time.”

Jensen folds his arm backward to fiercely weave fingers through those of the hand Misha had draped over his shoulder. “That’s a generous description,” he notes dryly, then drains half his glass.

“It’s not inaccurate though. We were out of balance. I revered you, and to counteract it, didn’t take us seriously.”

“So—let me get this straight—you’re saying me being an asshole and hurting you sufficiently lowered your opinion of me, and made us equals?”

“Well it sounds shitty when you put it like that!” he protests. “But yes. I couldn’t really love you when I never honestly believed you could love me. Or wanted to.

Jensen takes sip and muses, absently stroking the side of Misha’s little finger with his thumb. “Well shit, Mish,” he says mutely.

“ _Anyway,_ ” he pronounces firmly, eager to steer them away from bygones, “a lot has changed, and here we are.” He noses in to press his lips to the delicate space behind Jensen’s ear in appreciation, but also supplication of their continued fair existence. He takes very little for granted and Jensen is by no means the least.

“I’ve changed,” Jensen says earnestly. Misha refrains from a sarcastic agreementin favor of seeing where Jensen’s thinking lay. “I’m not the same person I was three years ago, or hell, even a year ago. I've given a lot of my crap away.” He pauses to drain his drink. “Fear and generosity shouldn’t have to compete,” he finishes obscurely.

Misha frowns. “You’re very generous,” he affirms. "To your job, your friends—”

“Of my time,” Jensen interrupts, “not necessarily of myself. I’ve played defense so long I didn’t realize how much I was missing by holding on too tight.” He leans forward to rid himself of the wine glass. “Faith in—everything, Mish, it’s never come naturally for me.”

“And now you’re asking it of me?” Misha says, a laugh bubbling under his voice. “When you’re—intentionally or not—being very cryptic.”

“Well you are the one who’s taught me about leaps of faith.” Jensen’s voice is warm but grave.

“It can’t have been by example. I throw things to chance, which is an entirely different and more careless philosophy.”

Jensen starts picking at the inseam along Misha’s thigh. “You do it with an open heart, however,” he says softly.

“Or a lack of one,” Misha mumbles, sculling back the last of his beverage. Withdrawing his arm first, he leans around Jensen to rest the base of his glass on the table and brusquely stands.

“Come on,” he says, turning to stretch out an arm in proposition.

“What?” Jensen asks warily.

“Come dance with me. This is far too mawkish a conversation for a New Year party.”

“Dude, New Year was days ago," Jensen argues, but nonetheless grasps Misha’s hand and pulls himself to stand.

“Ah, but this is _our_ New Year, Jensen.” He shuffles backward and clear of the furniture, grinning maniacally and performing an exaggerated jive with his hands out of step with the slow steady beat of the song emanating from the living room window. “Come’on. That sunset is too good to go to waste.”

“I’ll dance with you only if you tone down the dork,” Jensen bargains, a smile quivering at each corner of his mouth.

“If you insist. I’ll even let you lead,” he smirks as Jensen steps up to him, wrapping an arm behind his waist. Their playful attempt at some kind of waltz-like step lasted all of three steps before Jensen overruled it to draw him into a slow-moving hug.

“I’m leading, remember,” Jensen says when Misha resists.

“Famous last words,” Misha mutters to himself. Resigned to Jensen having his arms trapped again, he slots his thumbs down the back of his jeans on the gentle curve of his ass. “So are you going to explain this ‘plan’?”

“Nope,” Jensen declares. “But I want your blessing to show the world who we are. In small doses, of course.”

It’s then Misha notices the tenacity in Jensen’s eyes, a doggedness mixed with buoyancy. “Are you happy, Jensen?” he asks, seeing the answer already sitting in the other man’s expression.

Jensen inhales deeply and cants his head. “Dmitri,” his partner replies, husking his voice deliberately. “I’m happy for as long you let me in to love you, even if that means having to remind you that you deserve it.”

Misha finds his reaction shifts between wanting to laugh hysterically at the somewhat painful proclamation, and wanting to manhandle Jensen into the nearest location where he could cry his way through a desperate hard fuck.

Since neither is appropriate, he chooses to respond in kind. “That works both ways, jackass,” he says, disarmed. He clears his throat, thickening with feeling. Jensen’s tongue slips timidly out from between his lips and Misha follows the impulse to pursue it with his, dragging Jensen forward to kiss him with a tiny hitch of a moan preceding his lips. It stretches on, Jensen’s fingers carding firmly into his hair as he meets and multiplies Misha’s zeal with his mouth, their hands ranging and grasping until finally a sharp rap at the nearby window startles them apart. Misha ventures a look to see his wife standing in the brightly lit kitchen, clearly entertained.

“Were we just cockblocked?” Jensen asks, huffing a quiet laugh.

“No! Yes. Probably. Wouldn't be the first time.”

“Guess we got carried away,” he admits, patting at Misha’s hair, then giving in and scruffing it up again with a grin. “Happy New Year,” he adds with a cheerful eyebrow-waggle.

Misha smiles broadly in return. “And to you,” he says, dropping another kiss to Jensen’s mouth, keeping it soft and dulcet this time before pulling away, still regretful they weren’t alone.

“So, where are we going to take the kids this summer?” Jensen asks, stepping around Misha to circle his shoulders from behind.

“Like a vacation? All of us?”

“Yeah Mish. There’s more sunsets out there with our names on them.”

Misha rests his cheek against Jensen’s, rough with lax holiday grooming, and looks out at the deepening crimson and peach illuminating the sky, sweetly charmed, as always.

“I don’t doubt there will be many,” he agrees.


	15. Coda (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda  
> The final section of a ballet. And has two meanings:  
> (1) The finale of a classical ballet in which all the principal dancers perform with their partners.  
> (2) The final dance of the classic pas de deux, pas de trois or pas de quatre.

** **

**~*~**

**JENSEN**

**~*~**

 

 

**_Nashville, Tennessee. February 29th 2016_ **

Jensen laid his head on his friend’s shoulder as he shut off the phone's video app, and Misha instinctively gravitated toward him, resting his temple carelessly against his lover’s crown.

Their first campaign together was coming to an end, and as firsts went, it wasn’t perfect; but beginnings seldom were. There were hurdles to navigate, problems to work through, and negotiations to be had, but eventually - if you were willing to work hard enough - you ended up with something to be proud of, something lasting. As enduring and immutable as the sunsets they often shared. Not necessarily predictable, but always reliable. Apodictic. Beautiful.

Though the curtain may be closing on this act, there were many more to look forward to. The script was yet to be written, choreography still to be learned, melodies to be composed, practiced and perfected.

It was scary, not knowing what his lines were, where he was supposed to stand, what actions he was meant to perform, but as he turned his friend toward him; raising his hand above his head and spinning him - both laughing - in a clumsy pirouette, then pulled him close; cupping his cheek and kissing the smile from his lips, he knew he was in it until the final curtain call, and the lights dimmed for the very last time on their pas de deux.

 


End file.
